As a Tower Firmly Set
by words without
Summary: "Take back your city," Ezio said. "Rise to meet the burden you've been given." *Deals with the assassin recruits. Minor spoilers for AC:B*
1. Part One

AN: First of all, this is way too long.

See, it was supposed to be a quick one-shot written for **skywalker05** because I am too much a college student to be able to afford her an actual Christmas gift. Next thing I know it's reaching 40 pages and is somehow six chapters long. Parts of it are unabashedly cheesy and other parts are unabashedly out-of-time-period and Annetta kept sounding all 'I am woman hear me rawr' 1960s Feminist…and you know what? I'm super proud of it anyway.

But I need to put a disclaimer here: this is only somewhat fanfiction. It's AC:Brotherhood fic, but it's ACB fic about the assassin recruits you can pick up throughout the game, about whom is given only a name and physical description. I stuck to canon as much as was possible: so, all the names in this massive thing are the names of actual people I recruited, and they all look as they do in-game. Their death/survivals occur as they did while I was playing. In terms of personality, I worked with what I had: for instance, Annetta Barbieri is always lurking by the bookcase when not on a mission, so I had her be a well-born and literate chick. Tullio is always showing off moves to eager-looking Ermanno, so he became a friendly braggart and Ermanno became his hapless bff. The back stories themselves? Well. Let us just say that I am unhealthily obsessed with this series and both **skywalker05** and I are grandiose nerds. Yeah. If only I could care this much about my original characters…

It's not as if we paired the recruits up and gave them paring names or anything. (The paring name is Panetta.)

So, to sum it up, this story is long, and about npcs with barely any in-game canon, and a Christmas present that had delusions of being something greater, and a pretentious guilty pleasure, and. I _tried_, dammit.

Merry early Christmas, **skywalker05**! You better friggen like this I swear to God.

(Title and quote are from Dante. I told you this was pretentious, but sometimes being pretentious is so much _fun_.)

* * *

_**As a Tower Firmly Set**_

"_Be as a tower firmly set; Shakes not its top for any blast that blows."_

_The Man from Venice_

He was always destined to hold a sword.

Panfilo grew up in the rancid backstreets of Venice, grew up smelling sewage and watching the rats fight in the muck. There were parts of Venice that shimmered, lustrous and well-lit and buffered by canals pure enough to drink from, but those parts of Venice were not his. His Venice was old, and dank, and the water was always brown and oozed up through cracks in the streets. The buildings creaked in the wind. Bodies would wash against the docks with a certain regularity, black-smeared and bloated.

There were thieves and whores and mercenaries, all of whom blatantly advertised without any fear of the guards (for there were few guards in the Venice he knew). Panfilo's own mother had been a whore, maybe, not that he'd ever met her—but when his father was drunk, and that was pretty often, he'd curse the mother of his five children as a slut and a bitch and a _puttana_. Petaccia Sr. could insult his wife for _hours_.

The Petaccia family was considered destitute even by their district's lacking standards, but Panfilo wasn't bothered by his family situation much. He didn't know his mother to miss her, after all. And though as a child he hated his father's bitter, drunken uselessness, the rage faded by the time he hit thirteen. By thirteen he was taller than average, and looked older. He started passing himself off as sixteen to work odd jobs, basically supporting himself, which meant there was no time nor need to burden himself with old grudges. Had his father given up the bottle and become a new man, Panfilo wouldn't have noticed; had the man fallen into an open sewer and drowned, Panfilo wouldn't have blinked. His father was there or he wasn't: not since he was a little boy could Panfilo have said he cared.

There were siblings to worry about, though, and as the only son Panfilo did feel something resembling obligation. Much of his odd job money went towards feeding his sisters, towards putting clothing on their skinny backs. But at some point around the time he turned nineteen, two things happened to rid Panfilo of even these weak ties: his eldest sister went out and became an official whore, and his youngest vanished for a month and a half. The eldest visited only once, and then she came with her face painted red and her dress bunched low around her breasts. Panfilo didn't recognize her, didn't feel any sort of attachment to her; Petaccia Sr. screamed his best curses until his voice gave way to ugly croaking. When she left, she made it clear she wouldn't be back.

The youngest sister washed up on the docks, part of the pattern.

The middle two sisters were married off quickly, and young. Panfilo worked hard for a month, split what money he earned in half, and left one portion for those girls to use as they saw best. The other half he stuffed in a bag along with his clothes and a knife. Then he left.

He made no promises to see what remained of his family, and they did not ask him to return. Venice put no requirements or expectations upon his back as he paid fare for Forli. The ship that bore him across the water bore him away from nothing he would miss. He did not turn around to watch the decrepit old buildings pass into the distance, lost in their mildew and grime. Panfilo Petaccia had no one and nothing, and felt strangely satisfied.

_-i-_

Forli was still wet and still poor, at least where he could afford to stay. So he didn't stay. Most people saw one city in their lifetime, but Panfilo had known two by the time he stumbled into _Roma_, tired and dusty and completely broke. Rome was no cleaner than Venice had been, her poor districts were just as desperate, and her officials were so corrupt they didn't even pretend to be otherwise. People starved in the shadows of the ancient temples, and lived wrecks of lives in wrecks of buildings. Rome's days as a grand world-city were over; she was overgrown and overrun now, and not much loved by those who ruled her.

But there were glimmers of something greater, or at least Panfilo thought there were. Out of the corner of his eye, the sun glinted off marble paths and mosaic tile. He spent a full day just roaming the streets: he explored the Coliseum, starving inhabitants and all. The pure scale of the place caught his breath—it had been so _beautiful_ once. Turrets and archways and stone carvings freckled with moss. Panfilo didn't have much of an opinion on splendor, but he knew that Rome was beautiful. Maybe nowadays it was more of a painted beauty, the way his eldest sister had been beautiful when she visited with rouge smeared across her cheeks. Maybe nowadays the beauty was a little worn, was a little suspect.

But Rome _was_ very pretty. For no other real reason, Panfilo decided to stay.

There weren't many odd jobs, though. Rome's corruption ran so deep it touched on even the meanest tasks. The blacksmith's apprentice was a minor official's second cousin twice removed; the street sweeper had bribed a bishop's fifth illegitimate son by his second illegitimate wife to earn his broom. There were hordes of homeless starvelings, most of them children, willing to fight for every messenger job and every dropped coin. Panfilo moved on.

He'd never particularly cared for violence, but hunger did strange things, and eventually he used his knife for more than just protection. He soothed his wounded conscience by only robbing those who walked the streets in rich garb, those who could afford to drop coins and not notice the crowds of children converging on the spot. It was hard to feel bad for stripping some fat priest of his heavy furs; it was hard to feel bad for taking gold chains from women so made up they could have passed for his elder sister's coworkers.

It was hard to feel guilty, but the guards who finally arrested him (he'd gotten careless, robbed the wife of the captain of the guard for spare change and her silk parasol) were determined to make him feel _something_. Pain, if not guilt. Stubborn Panfilo wouldn't tell them where he'd sold the parasol until they'd broken every finger and blackened both eyes. He probably could have held out even longer had not the captain of the guard threatened to get creative with a poker so hot it glowed red.

"I gave it to her as a birthday gift," the captain informed Panfilo in between punches. "She was quite devastated over its being stolen. How long did you say you handled it for? I might just buy her another one, so she doesn't have to cover her hands in peasant dirt."

Panfilo opened a mouth streaming blood and croaked out a curse, one that had always been a favorite of his father. It earned him a kick in the groin from a guard wearing steel-toed boots. His huddled, groaning form was then dragged out from the abandoned building it'd been dragged into hours earlier. The captain of the guard was greatly amused to see him sprawled out in a puddle only _half_ mud.

"You must be used to the view and the stench," the captain observed. "Hard to feel pity for your kind, though, when you are so unrepentant about your crimes."

That last kick had given Panfilo some extra wisdom. This time he stayed quiet, lying curled in the reek.

"Repent and be saved of your sins," added the captain. "Not that I expect you will." He gave one last kick as an incentive for salvation.

It was growing dark by the time Panfilo found the energy to rouse himself to a sitting position. He sat with his bleeding back to a crumbling stone wall, shivering in the nighttime chill because his shirt had been ripped off and was too torn to put back on. The area around him consisted mostly of old ruins, a stone labyrinth miles wide, inhabited by people too poor to afford anything whole. Panfilo fit the description, especially at the moment; his stomach roared but he was too drained to consider finding food.

"Lucky bastard," someone said. "You survived the _capitano_."

Panfilo turned his head, relieved that there was at least strength enough for _that_. The man standing over him now was dressed in a motley assortment of clothing worn grey by over-washing, and had a blue cloth tied around his forehead. His chin was peppered with stubble, and his brown eyes were narrowed with curiosity. There was an old sword strapped to his waist.

"He gets power-hungry sometimes," the man continued. "You piss him off, he sends you off to the Devil real damn quick."

"Oh," said Panfilo. There wasn't much else to say.

"You're lucky you still have your life and your balls. Anything broken?"

"Fingers. I think some ribs."

"Lucky bastard," the man repeated. "Lucky and stupid. Don't rob the big guys alone. What, are you going after the Pope next?"

"I'm still learning." Panfilo leaned his head back against the wall. "Besides, I've been told to repent for my sins."

"Forget penance. Have you seen _Roma_ lately? The only ones with more children than the whores are the priests."

"I've seen Rome," said Panfilo. "She's very pretty."

"She's an old bitch," the man grinned, "but she's ours. Don't worry about repenting. Christ is on _our_ side in Rome."

"If you say so," agreed Panfilo, eyes flickering shut. He was suddenly _very_ tired, too tired to feel even the pain boiling under his ribcage.

"Hey, lucky bastard, don't sleep here," cautioned the stranger. "This place is the ass-end of the earth. Even when they were worshipping Zeus they avoided the maze. You get knifed here, they won't find your body 'till it starts to rot. Why do you think the _capitano_ dragged you here?"

"Plenty of horse shit," Panfilo suggested. It struck him that, when he was done being tired, he _really_ needed a bath.

The stranger laughed—a low, thin rasping, the laugh of a man used to conversations in dark corners at night. "I think I like you," he said. "And because I like you I'm gonna put a roof over your head, rent-free." He added, "For tonight, anyway. The boss gets bitchy when we start using the barracks like an inn."

"Sounds good." Panfilo's lips were starting to go numb. He could barely follow the conversation. "I gotta walk there?"

"What, you want me to carry you? I don't like you _that_ much." But the man did help him stand, did let Panfilo sling an arm over his shoulder. "Like I said. You are a lucky bastard."

Panfilo started to laugh at that, half-hysterical. The stranger stared askance at him, and he tried to drag himself back into some semblance of control. "Sorry," he said. "But I just remembered that today's my birthday. I'm twenty five. And I spent it getting kicked into horse shit."

"You're a mercenary," the stranger shrugged. "It's part of the life. What, you want a medal for breathing?"

"I'm not a mercenary," Panfilo said, confused. He wasn't bearing much of his weight as they began to walk.

The stranger said, "You're a mercenary now."

_-i-_

Being a mercenary meant being strong: strong enough to swing a sword, strong enough to scuttle in the darkness for days on end without sleep, strong enough to see friends die miserable deaths. His savior from the maze of ruins was captured and tortured for information or for fun, and Panfilo was part of the group sent to rescue him. They couldn't, though—there wasn't enough to rescue. There was enough to bury, so they buried, and then they went back to the old barracks they used as a hideout and never spoke of the man again. Panfilo could bare all this, because he was strong.

Being a mercenary meant killing, and Panfilo killed three guards on his first mission. The first two with the sword he still wasn't holding quite right, the last with the pure strength of his fists. The kills were bloody, and the first guard screeched a lot, but it was disturbing only in a vague way. Panfilo had seen death and murder in Venice, had seen life stolen for haphazard reasons. Here, there was some semblance of reason. A mercenary was little more than hired muscle, but their victims were almost always city soldiers, and no one felt guilt about shedding the blood of armor-plated rats.

He built a body peppered with muscles. Brown hair that had a tendency to curl flattered hazel eyes and dark skin. One of his fingers, as it healed, developed a slight curve he could never quite straighten out. The rough contours of his face made him look thirty at twenty five. He was, with enough food and plenty of training, a large fellow, towering over some of his reedier accomplices.

Strong, too. Strong enough to send his training partners flying. That a boy from the ruins should be such a skilled fighter—he was only average with a sword, but he made up for all that in sheer size—surprised some of the other mercenaries. The rest commented constantly on what they felt was his unfair advantage with women: he wore his face well, and looked impressive instead of just _old_. But for all their complaining the mercenaries were a friendly bunch, and Panfilo felt he fit in well enough.

His new barracks home was falling apart, as all his previous homes had done. Bartolomeo, the _condottiero_, the 'boss', swore near-daily that he'd fix it up. Every now and then he'd drag the mercenaries nearest him to whatever door had fallen off its hinges and bellow at them to start working, stop loafing, did they want to live in a barn the lazy sons of bitches or did they expect their beloved leader to do all the work or what. "Or what," those conscripted generally agreed. Then Bartolomeo would bellow even louder and start whacking at things with his beloved sword Bianca.

The barracks usually looked worse after one of these rebuilding sessions. But the men loved Bartolomeo, so they didn't argue much. In front of him, anyway.

Panfilo was equally enamored of their leader. The _condottiero_ was loud and foul-mouthed and so ridiculously meek around his pretty wife that some of the braver men called _her_ the boss, but he was also fair. And loyal. And he followed his men into battle without fail. He never took assignments from people he didn't trust, no matter the pay offered, and if a mission went poorly he took the blame upon his own broad and burly shoulders.

He'd also lived in Venice once, and Panfilo spent a lazy afternoon sparring with Bartolomeo and remembering older days. The canals, blue or brown. The over-the-top drama that was _Carneval_. The way the mists would rise on some mornings, so that the sunlight was splintered into a million glistening pieces, overwhelming even the dank miasmas of the poor districts.

By the end of the day Panfilo could barely lift his arms and Bartolomeo was singing love songs to his blade; Panfilo spent the night nursing the knowledge that _Roma_ was a part of him in a way the other cities had never been. And afterwards, when Bartolomeo road out on missions, his right-hand man was usually the man from Venice. And the sun rose on misty mornings to fracture into a million pieces of light.

_-i-_

Then the light faded. Then the miasmas from Venice came.

Panfilo was leading a mission in the ruins he'd been recruited from. By now he knew their twisting pathways as well as any of his fellow mercenaries, but no one could map out that place entirely, and so he was eager to leave before darkness struck and made doing so nigh impossible.

His men were joking around, satisfied by an easy mission and the certainty of easy pay. Easy missions weren't easy to find, these days; _Roma_'s painted beauty was starting to tarnish. It was more than just corruption…it was something darker. Something more insidious. More people were starving and more people vanishing than ever before. The ranks of the mercenaries swelled, but so too did the ranks of the guards, as the name Cesare Borgia began dripping from the lips of the powerful and the scared. What control there had been was lost. A captured mercenary could no longer even hope for a quick death.

But this, today, had been an easy mission. And this, today, was the life that Panfilo, twenty eight and content, had made.

Someone—some_thing_—howled. The noise, inhumane and crazed, echoed against the crumbling frames of buildings. Then it came again. And again. It seemed endless, and so cruel.

The mercenaries were, as a rule, not an easily frightened bunch. And Panfilo was not an easily frightened person. His men pulled out their swords, and he readied his own. Wild dogs prowled the maze, sometimes. Or else there were guards out having fun. Either creature would fall to the blade.

But what finally roused itself from the growing shadows was not man nor dog, but both. A strange mixed beast of war. The wolfmen—were they only men wearing furs heaped upon their backs and heads, or were they wolves with stolen faces strapped to their skulls?—surrounded Panfilo's little group, moving swiftly over fallen stone. There were nervous mutters from the mercenaries. One of the wolfmen threw his-it's head back and howled.

"Who are you?" demanded Panfilo. "Are you with the city leaders? Are you Borgia men?"

"It speaks," slurred the howler, "It speaks, it defiles our city, it does not belong here."

"Drunk," a mercenary muttered.

"Stand down or we will knock you down ourselves," Panfilo said in warning. The wolfman laughed.

"Look at the leader." He snarled, revealing canine teeth sharpened into fangs. "So tall and brave and mighty. So he thinks. Is he used to loss? Shall he discover it fresh?"

"Enough," Panfilo said. "Kill them," Panfilo did not say, because he did not have time to speak again before the wolfmen were upon them, tooth and claw.

_-i-_

"_Hey, lucky bastard, don't sleep here. They won't find your body 'till it starts to rot."_

Panfilo managed to drag himself out of the maze, as dawn light reached the world. There was a red-rimmed haze in front of his eyes that had nothing to do with the weather. There was a dull ache by his mouth that scared him more than the agony blazing from his left wrist. There were no mercenaries by his side. He opened his mouth to speak and could only gurgle, his jaw hanging uselessly, the muscles in his left cheek pulling open. The haze grew.

But he did not stop until he reached open fields. Then, because here his body would be found before it started to smell, he let himself collapse.

_-i-_

The barracks were never quiet. The mercenaries did not know how to do anything but roar. But now the silence was so mighty Panfilo could not break it. He was given a small room to himself, for the first time in his life, and it scared him. He hated it. It was too big and he felt lost.

No, Panfilo was not used to loss, but then, this was the first time he'd had anything to lose.

Bartolomeo forbid anyone but himself and his wife into the room while Panfilo healed. 'Healed'. Something. His wife drew cool cloths across the swelling and stitched shut the worst of the gashes. Panfilo lay still as death in bed, mute and ugly.

"Wolfmen," Bartolomeo said, for once not bellowing. He sounded tired, and Bianca was lying out upon his lap. "They showed up at the same time as the Borgia. Some crazy sect of whoredogs. They think they're beasts. Even the Papal Guards are afraid of them."

Panfilo chose not to answer. Then he chose to answer. His choices, he knew, were meaningless because there wasn't a choice—there was a deep slash along his jaw line, and Bartolomeo's wife had ordered him not to talk, not for a while. His wrist was broken, there was massive bruising around his chest, and none of that concerned him, but his _face_…

Long, inflamed gashes, from one cheekbone to the other. Five, to be exact, mirroring a handprint from pinky to thumb. His nose broken under the impact of dragging fingers, of fingers bearing claws sharper than any human had a right to own. An upper lip that would heal a mass of scarring. From below the eyes Panfilo was more a beast than the wolfmen.

Bartolomeo was obviously uncomfortable. "You'll be fine," he said finally. "Every mercenary has scars. I'd show you mine but my wife would take Bianca and run me through."

Panfilo had been told not to talk, so he did not get to choose whether or not to tell the _condottiero_ that the scars were merely the physical proof that things had been Lost. The mercenaries, victory, strength and pride. And the scars would be so _noticeable_, it was obvious from the type of wound. There would be no escaping them. He could not pay fare to Forli and run.

Bartolomeo stood to leave. His wife watched him with unreadable eyes. Panfilo stirred in bed.

"The bodies," he croaked. It hurt, Christ in Heaven it _hurt_. He could feel the swollen skin twanging tight against bone. He could feel the burning along his upper jaw, where muscle sat exposed and glistening in a river of fat and flesh. "The bodies. Did you find…?"

"…We'll keep looking until we find them," Bartolomeo said after a slight hesitation. "Give them a proper burial."

Panfilo shook his head, which made him dizzy, which made him moan. "Then you won't find them," he said.

He had been told not to talk, and so after that he didn't. For months.

* * *

AN: I fully understand that most people don't read fanfiction about npcs, but I'd appreciate reviews from anyone who actually manages to slog through. Thanks so much!


	2. Part Two

_The Woman from Rome_

She had never been meant to wield a blade. She had been meant for other things, instead.

There was a price hanging over Annetta Barbieri's head: a price to be paid in dowry and rank. Her house was in a nice section of _Roma_, but there were nicer; it had a lot of rooms, but there were larger mansions down the street. Her father was an official, but not a very important one; her brother had risen through the ranks of the military, only to die in some backwater during some minor skirmish. The family honor he'd built died with him.

Annetta was not merely a fortunate girl, taught etiquette and Latin and poetry…she was an Expectation, an Achievement in the making. Her family, as her father so often liked to say, was noble-born but only barely so, and in Rome your name mattered as much as your purse. So the last child of the Barbieri line was given a fine education—too fine for a girl, some said, what with the lessons in mathematics and grammar and classical art, things no self-respecting wife _really_ needed to know—and told to ensnare a Good Name, be it by her sophistication or her change purse or the bits underneath her dress.

"If you marry well, the family name will continue on. We will _matter_ more," her father said. "If you aren't important, you don't exist. You must let the world know you rule it, Annetta."

And pretty Annetta, with her blonde hair and pale blue eyes and tight-laced dresses…pretty Annetta failed every test.

Every test that counted, anyway. She did very well in her lessons, impressed every tutor. She read voraciously, sometimes a book a day, both the proper things assigned to her and the more scandalous texts she wheedled from the servants. When she turned twelve her gifts included jewels and gilded mirrors and fencing practice: she wore the first and broke the second and excelled in the last, regretting only that the rapier she swung wasn't real. She was smart and aloof and no man wanted her. She turned eighteen and there were no offers.

Her father's response was to heap more dresses onto her bed, string more jewels around her neck. "_Impress_ them," he begged. "You have looks and money, make them _want_ to be with you."

"Perhaps I could take a lesson with a courtesan," she mused. There was no intended disrespect; she had studied every other subject with a master, so why not do the same to learn feminine charm? Her father did not see the thought behind the idea.

"Slut," he roared. "Useless baggage! What do you care if you're a spinster at thirty two? What do you care if the family you were born into dies away? I have given you _everything_, child. If you throw away your heritage, what in God's Holy Name will you have left?"

("The problem with you is that you're a woman," her fencing tutor told her, inadvertently echoing the family priest, "but you want to do battle like a man. You have other weapons besides the sword. Why not use them to your advantage?"

Annetta grit her teeth and wished for a sharpened blade.)

_-i-_

Because she was an Expectation, albeit a failed one, Annetta Expected of everyone else in turn. When her fencing tutor failed to call her on sloppy moves, she accused him of deceit. When her servants dropped a vase or lost a favorite book, she turned on her icy stare full-blast. She wanted to meet her own obligations—true, they _bored_ her, but that wasn't at all the point. Annetta had no raging ideals, no desire to throw off her father's yoke and live some other life. _What_ other life? Should she become a courtesan and sell herself to greasy men? Should she cut her hair and bind her breasts, become the military legend her brother had never been? Why should she? What good would it serve? She would be poor, and hungry, and most of all a coward.

"Never turn your back on your target," her fencing instructor said. "The best fencers can almost read their opponent's mind."

Here was another Expectation: she could never simply _be_. Annetta accepted this, because she saw no reason not to, and she was fascinated the first time she cut her instructor's hand with a badly—or well—aimed parry. The thin red drizzle across his hand was something different.

You couldn't hide from scarring, Annetta decided that night. It didn't give you a choice but to live up to its challenge or else waste away.

_-i-_

Finally, at twenty, with her father so disgusted he couldn't look her in the face, there came an offer. Its maker was thirty-nine, and hairy, and very rich. The family priest found a line in the Bible which claimed that Jesus Our Lord Himself condemned any girl who refused to marry in accordance with her father's wishes. Annetta spent half a month flipping through her personal Bible in search of such a line, but never found one. The family priest, she thought, must have been working with a new edition.

Then there was no more time to spend and she accepted the offer. Her fiancé came from a powerful family, which lately had become less powerful—not the best choice, her father sighed, but what could they do? With the arrival of the Borgia things had become more difficult, more tightly wound. Disagreeing with the status quo could give you more than a black mark to your name.

Her fiancé wanted to get married quickly, and her father wanted his future secured, so Annetta was left with mere weeks to gather everything together. She would be a good wife, she thought as she packed away gowns and books. There was no attachment to her old life so strong that she could not give it up. She would bear healthy children, and she would educate them well, son and daughter both. She would rule her household as she had been taught to do all her life.

Annetta met with her intended two weeks before the wedding. She had asked for no huge ceremony, only a chance to meet the man she'd forever be a part of before she said her vows. So they spent a day sitting on a bench outside her estate, and she was curious, and he was shy, and he paid a wandering minstrel to sing her love songs in a crackling voice. Annetta watched the crowds pass, watched the guards pass, watched her fiancé as he sat nervously through silences that were somehow endearing. He was old but not _ugly_—when he combed his hair, anyway. Perhaps his beard could use a trim.

"Why me?" she asked him, blonde hair caught on the fall breeze. He noticed her shiver and ordered a servant to fetch her fur-lined cloak. "You were the only one to offer."

If he was surprised by her bluntness he didn't admit it. Nor was he surprised that no one else had asked: "You read too much," he chuckled, "and you aren't friendly enough, and when people pay you compliments you stare and ask them to elaborate. Like you're taking notes."

He never answered her question, but what he said was almost enough to count. _He will be a good husband,_ she thought. He would never be brave, or dashing, or particularly smart, and she would never love him, but he would meet her expectations. And she would be a good wife.

And then he died.

Days before the ceremony, a messenger arrived at the Barbieri household: the bearer of bad news, he spun a tale that left Annetta's father pulling at his hair. Annetta herself listened intently, absorbing every detail. Then she turned, and went upstairs to her room, and shut the door, and was very quiet for a very long time.

It had been the Borgia, of course. Someone related to that family somehow had knocked into her fiancé somewhere in the streets; Rome was overcrowded, swollen with people even in the richer districts, and it was hard these days to walk the streets completely unmolested. But the Borgia, and all those clinging to their coattails, were reinventing the rules to better suit themselves. The churches had begun to preach obedience to state and God, in that order. When an official walked the streets, a path had better be made for him.

But Annetta's clumsy fiancé had not moved out of the way in time, or else had placed more stock in the protections of his family name than it still bore. _The trouble with minor nobility_, she thought numbly, and understood her father more than ever before. He had been killed right then, in a flash of silver and blur of sword, and there would be no punishment for his murder. There was, in fact, no murder, because to oppose or even irritate a Borgia man carried the death sentence by unwritten law.

Annetta, as was proper, wore mourning colors for a month. Her father seemed to age a year every day. Their family name would be remembered only in the context of bad luck and misery now. Who would she marry? Who would she become?

Three more months passed, and there were no more offers, and the family priest began finding lines in his Bible which spoke of the honor of the virgin woman. Perhaps, her father moaned, she should consider becoming a nun.

Annetta spent most of her time reading. She had failed in every expectation—was adrift, without purpose or direction. If she thought about it, she was also longing for the awkward affection of a man now dead…but to admit that would be to drown in a grief she would not name, and so she did not think about it. She never spoke of her fiancé, would never again mention his name.

This grief was harsh and sharp, a rusty nail or a decrepit tomb. Because she disliked running from duty Annetta bore her mourning as she had once planned to bear her children. She cradled her failure in her arms, rocked it as she slept. But she did not _name_ it. It was not given that comfort, and it grew into something terribly bitter, and tough. Blunt Annetta shackled herself to her dead future and waited for it to catch up. The light in her eyes were so strange it scared the servants, and they began avoiding her room. She saw her father so little she barely knew his face when she happened to pass him in the halls.

The streets, in their anonymity, were something of a comfort. She took to wearing men's breeches as she did when fencing, wandering the districts to remind herself of life still lived. People gave her strange looks, and the soldiers she passed were guaranteed to whistle and smirk, but Annetta was beyond noticing such minor things. Yet no one accosted her; they hooted from a safe distance, as one might taunt a leper. Annetta Barbieri was kept apart.

And because she was alone, she was able to see the city as it began to fall down around itself. The _Roma_ she had grown up in had changed, and was changing again. The Borgia guards were on edge, rattled; they'd been dying more and more these days. Thieves and mercenaries and disgruntled citizens were beginning to resemble vigilantes. The Borgia responded to the protests with cruelty shocking even for their bloodthirsty hearts, but it didn't seem to be enough. Something, some_one_, was inspiring discontent. Rebellion brewed under the surface. The ruling elite were no longer guaranteed docile obedience from their beaten hordes.

Annetta, as she roamed the streets, saw this and was intrigued. The people had been given a fresh purpose, though not all of them were brave enough to accept it. Even the rich districts had an old, unsightly edge to them lately; no one could be ensured a safe haven from the looming violence. Annetta did in fact take notes.

And then one day, months after she'd been made an almost-widow and a letdown both, she saw three Borgia soldiers harassing some poor fool for insults he'd thrown their way. His friends had scattered when the angry guards attacked, but he'd been too slow to escape; she recognized her hapless fiancé in the man, a bit, and something tightened in her chest.

A guard pulled his sword free from its scabbard. She cried out, or at least she thought she did, but no one reacted. People in the streets walked past with eyes plastered to the ground. Annetta moved a few steps forward. The victim fell a heap of ruined parts. His eyes were open and staring, and she saw herself reflected in them.

There was a loose bit of cobblestone by her feet; the streets weren't maintained very well. She bent down, almost self-conscious, and felt the weight of the rock in her hand. It was sturdy, fit nicely.

"Hey, girl," one of the guards snapped. "What are you doing? Move on, little bitch, if you want to stay safe and pretty."

Annetta threw the rock. It hit the man whose sword was out, hard enough that he stumbled back and dropped his blade. Annetta moved quickly to grab it. When she raised the sword as if to fight with it, all three of the guards laughed.

With good reason. Annetta had been trained in fencing, not swordplay, and it was all she could do to hold off the first blows as they came. Her arms burned, her wrists throbbed, and she couldn't keep the sword steady enough to swing it even once. It was _heavy_, and far too long, and her stance was all wrong, and in three seconds her back was to the wall behind her, with three snickering soldiers leering at her as they came closer.

A flash of white-on-red and someone screamed—

It was over before Annetta's startled eyes could comprehend the sight before them. The soldiers were dead, that much she realized, and rising from the small heap of corpses was a man dressed in voluminous robes of red and white, wearing cowl and armor and a scar across his lips. He was absolutely _dripping_ weapons.

(He had a kind face, bearded and young. He was cripplingly handsome, and yet she wasn't attracted…his eyes were so sad, she thought. His frown was so natural and worn.)

He turned to face her, with no explanation of where he'd come from or who he was. If he was surprised to see a well-born woman in breeches holding a sword, his eyes gave no sign.

"The liberation of _Roma_ has begun," he said. His voice was low and smooth, with a real bite. He spoke with stern authority, and there was no doubt he had the strength to back up his words (the pile of bodies he was so calmly standing by testified to that)…and yet, somehow, she heard him speak and saw a frightened teenaged boy.

"If you choose to flee, do so now," he continued, "but if you choose to fight, stand with me against the Borgia."

Choose to fight? Was there a choice? _You want to battle like a man…_

"Take back your city," the man said. "Rise to meet the burden you've been given."

Annetta smiled. There was something of a dagger in it.


	3. Part Three

_The Recruit_

That the Borgia were being challenged for power couldn't be argued. But no one could figure out who was doing the challenging, and the topic began raging along the backstreets and country roads. Groups of people, excited and scared and above all else _curious_, gathered under the fading sky at dusk or dawn, to gossip in whispers. A man dressed in white…? Cryptic messengers…? The Borgia reaching out for French help…?

The power-holders fought back, of course. Patrols were increased, and even minor crimes were given severe punishments: to be caught _discussing_ Cesare's slipping grasp was to risk execution as a rabble-rouser or traitor or spy. But the crueler the Borgia became, the more the violence spread. There were several men in white, now—there _had_ to be, because soldiers were dying quickly and simultaneously all over the city's many provinces. They were quick and skilled, ghost-like in the way they melted through the reaching fingers of the guard. More than just the cannon fodder began to die; a corrupt cardinal was found bobbing face-down in the river, and Cesare's own sister ended up locked and screaming in a cell, trapped in a fortress built specifically to keep Borgia enemies _out_.

It was an exciting time to be a mercenary, or a thief, or a whore. Being caught, particularly as one of the first two, was a guaranteed death sentence—but there were more contracts out than ever, more money to be made. It was easy now for thieves to slip away: the minute a guard began to yell, vigilantes would be blocking his way, or else interested civilians would flock to the scene and inadvertently jam the streets. Rumors spread that the thief lord La Volpe and the _condottiero_ Bartolomeo both had dealings with the mysterious men in white. The city's largest brothel suddenly had a new madam. _Roma_ waited eagerly for her liberators to go to war.

Panfilo Petaccia would not be joining the fight.

Even after his wounds closed, he kept to the mists. Bartolomeo kept inviting him on missions, kept insisting that the second-in-command position was still open for him to take. The other mercenaries kept pointing out that scarred fighters were nothing new. They all kept _promising_—but what none of them understood was that it wasn't a choice, to stay hidden and silent. Panfilo could not choose to find the sword that he had lost. He led one mission after the incident and he could feel the eyes of his men boring into his back, could feel them wondering, could feel them offering _sympathy_…

He opened his mouth to give orders and his voice was rust. A dog howled in the distance and he nearly dropped his blade. He led his men through a small but heavily guarded village, where a young girl saw his face and gasped and drew attention, so that they had to turn and run. An easy success turned failure. And the men insisted that he was not to blame.

And that made it all worse. What Panfilo wanted most was for someone to take him by the shoulders and tell him he'd screwed up. He wanted to be allowed his guilt. He did not want to be what he was, a sympathetic wreck of a man, somehow still grudgingly handsome so far down beneath the scars that even courtesans winced when they saw.

"What a shame," they said.

"What a shame," Bartolomeo grumbled. "He's getting in his own way. I keep telling him that no one blames him for that mess. So what if he's a little roughed up now? He's still a damn good fighter. What else does he need?"

Panfilo agreed. What a shame.

It wasn't self-pity, what he felt. He accepted his new face as he accepted his new role. The mercenaries would never be able to look him in the eye without noting the changes in his gaze. He could be who he was; he could not be the same Panfilo, with the same quiet laugh or open smile.

(He couldn't _smile_. Not fully. The right corner of his mouth was lost in a webbed heap of scar tissue.)

Without meaning to he'd begun to consider himself apart from the mercenaries. He thought of Bartolomeo's men as a separate They now, as he'd always thought of his family in Venice as separate. But he'd been able to accept the distance before. Now he wanted none of it. He wanted to be Bartolomeo's right-hand mercenary again, leading missions with confidence…and the _condottiero _kept trying to convince him that he could be…

But Bartolomeo had always looked at the world as he looked at Bianca. He'd never understood that one couldn't shape a person as one could shape a sword. There were no ways to melt human steel, to reform something whole from ruined sinew and meat. Certainly Panfilo still had the strength to fight, but he would fight as a half-man for as long as he remained in the barracks. The others would always remember what he had been, for all their protests to the contrary. They would always wince to themselves when they heard his self-enforced whisper, his harsh and croaking rasp. The wolfmen had ripped away his face and his identity both. He could not be melted down. The dents could not be hammered out.

Panfilo could not be a mercenary now. In this, as with so much of his life, there was no choice.

_-i-_

He was kept busy. Though Bartolomeo had always threatened to expel any man who didn't pull his weight, he never once told Panfilo to leave. Even when it became clear that there would be no more missions, no more support. Even as Panfilo became a quiet miasma of his own. There was never any sense of disobedience: he followed orders when given, spoke when necessary. But instinctively he limited the amount of times it _was_ necessary. He avoided potential conversations with the look in his eyes, as doctors avoided plague with their masks.

Yet Bartolomeo refused to chastise him for this. (Still he was not offered the chance to carry his own guilt.) Panfilo was not told to pick up his mercenary duties. He avoided, and eventually was avoided in turn, and his face did not heal, and his voice did not strengthen. His eyes were hawk's eyes now, watchful and wary.

He spent his newfound free time thinking. At meals he still ate with the rest of the men, but in a thoughtful silence no one could break. He was fascinated with the pull of his own jaw as he chewed: even that small feeling had been changed. During the day he kept busy with chores, sweeping floors and feeding horses. Bartolomeo, still frustrated ("I'm off to Florence today. Come with me! One touch of blade hilt to the skin of your palm and you'll be addicted again, I promise you. I'll run Bianca through any _bastardo _who looks at your face."), assigned him the task of taking weapons and armor to the local blacksmith's for upkeep.

Summer reached Rome in burnt and drying streams. Heat smashed into the city and stayed there. For weeks there wasn't even a slight dip in temperature, and there was never any breeze. The city suffered. Men were stifled and stir-crazy in their clothes.

Panfilo barely felt the heat as he road along the dirt road towards the barracks. Behind him was the cluster of houses and storefronts that contained the blacksmith's shop. Lost in his thoughts as ever, he accepted the heat without complaint, but his horse was not so easy-going. There were few trees along most of the countryside roads; the stretches of fields offered little in the way of shade. Panfilo was quiet now, but not cruel. There was a small way-station on his left—nothing more than a small stable and two long troughs, but he let his horse canter towards the smell of water. He dismounted as his horse began to drink, glad for the change to stretch his legs, in no hurry to return to the barracks.

The barracks which were no longer home. At least out here it was easier to stay silent. At least out here the shocked looks were from strangers. When the mercenaries were around it wasn't as easy to forget the corrosion in his voice, nor the curdled skin on his face…

Someone shoved him, severing daydream and mood. Panfilo looked up to see a soldier with his gloved hand clutching the horse's reins.

"Stand aside for the Borgia," the soldier barked. "You will surrender this animal to my authority, for official use."

Official use of a horse? Panfilo cocked his head, raised an eyebrow. The side of his mouth twitched.

"Is there a problem with that?" The soldier dropped his haughty tone in favor of something more guttural. Panfilo, who was quite familiar with the accents of the lower classes, seeing as how he bore one, figured that the guard's promotion had been rather recent. "This horse is mine now. Borgia authority is given to the army to claim any civilian property we feel we require. For the good of _Roma_, of course."

Panfilo held out his hand for the reins.

The soldier sneered. "It's a hot day. They tell me to patrol the area in all this armor and then they expect me to walk? I'm no farmer that I should have to sweat in the mud. It'll be a much nicer assignment now that I have this beast to ride. You can't argue that, eh?"

Panfilo frowned. He lowered his hand, considered his crooked finger while the soldier laughed.

"Thank you for your contribution. My horse looks so well-fed." He dangled the reins in front of the other man. "But you'd better get going. It's hot as hell out and you're stuck walking. Wouldn't want the rest of your face to slough off."

Panfilo nodded. He glanced towards the reins. Then he punched the soldier in the face.

_-i-_

He let the horse run for a while, mostly for the feel of wind against his face. When he was less than ten minutes away from the barracks, he dismounted by a stubby tree at the bottom of a hill and waited, watching the shadows as they grew long and dark against the ground. The horse grazed nearby. Panfilo thought of the blacksmith's shop, and how it was the blacksmith who currently had his sword.

It took about twenty minutes for the guards to appear.

Panfilo pointed his horse in the direction of the barracks and slapped its rump to get it moving. No sense losing it when the mercenaries counted horses just as dear as the men. More so, in a way, considering how expensive they were. He watched as the animal trotted off, surprised at how little he was tempted to follow. Sure, he could run to the barracks, lead the guards into a nest of bored and angry men. There'd be no way for the soldiers to win. Sure, he could do that.

Panfilo licked his lips and tasted rust.

(It was not hard to say goodbye, this time. He'd been adjusting to the loss for months.)

He did not turn around as the first of the soldiers reached him. His arms were seized by strong hands and yanked behind his back. He was twisted around and forced to his knees. With his arms securely pinioned, one hand went to his hair and pulled roughly, tugging his head so that he had no choice but to look up.

There were four soldiers, not counting the one holding him still. One of the four wore a black eye and a scowl, and was using the back of his hand to blot at a bloody nose. Panfilo smiled.

One of the four was in full armor and helmet: clearly the leader, judging by his insignia. "To attack a soldier of Rome is to surrender your life," he said in a tone that suggested cool amusement, and Panfilo's eyes widened. That voice and those words—how _stupid_, to find something here of all places that hadn't changed.

"_Lucky bastard. You survived the _capitano_."_

Panfilo thought, _I guess you were wrong._

_-i-  
_

The maze of ruins was not far and so it was there the soldiers dragged him. Had he been asked, he would have approved of the choice. The beating that followed, deep in the knotted pathways, was leisurely and careful. A ruined arch began its ark over the square, but the midsection had long since crumbled and lay in chunks around them. The captain mostly watched, standing beside one of those ancient stones. He gave no sign that he recognized his victim, but in all the years since their first encounter his methods had not changed.

He raised a hand, and a half-conscious Panfilo was dragged back to his knees. "You assaulted one of my men," he said, indicating the soldier in question. "Normally I'd have you killed and that would be the end of it. But I am a reasonable man, and I know how the heat makes strangers of people. We are all civilized men here, are we not?"

He seemed to expect an answer; when he received none he sighed and nodded. A hand found Panfilo's right wrist and snapped. (Even the screams were hoarser than they used to be. Even they sounded tarnished and old.)

The captain waited for quiet and then continued, "There isn't the need for all this fuss. My men have every right to take supplies from civilians and put them to better use. Perhaps the heat made you forget your duty to Rome? No matter."

Another pause; some punches; Panfilo's ruined face pushed down into the dirt. The captain of the guard leaned forward. "Apologize to the soldier you struck and I will release you. Don't be stubborn. Accept my mercy like a good little boy."

There was too much blood in Panfilo's mouth to taste the rust. He wondered how long it would take to find his body. Would anyone look? The soldiers were being awfully loud right now, so maybe someone would overhear and let Bartolomeo know…

"Apologize," said the captain. "Be honored that you are getting the chance to atone for your sins."

The pause that followed begged for speech. Panfilo struggled, tried to force sound past his throat.

"Are you listening? Are you paying any attention at all?"

"Forget penance," said Panfilo, speaking above a whisper for the first time in months. His words were slow and wavering as he felt out the new contours of his voice. His jaw throbbed.

"You're making a mistake, boy. How many bits of flesh do I need to hack away to open your eyes?"

Panfilo laughed, almost delirious. It was so frustrating that he could no longer be a mercenary. It was so frustrating that he was forced to bear the marks of his Loss. So frustrating, because so much of him still wanted to fight…!

"Beg forgiveness, idiot."

Panfilo slurred through a smile, "Have you found the bodies yet?"

There was the telltale click of metal as a blade was freed from its scabbard. Someone shouted, and then the grasping hands were gone. Panfilo slumped forward completely. Swords clanged. He was dimly aware of a battle.

Then someone, a different someone, was pulling him to his feet, gently. He found some semblance of balance and wavered, the sound of his own breathing loud in his ears. He squinted at the man in front of him, at a young-old face and white robes splashed with red. He became aware that the soldiers were dead. The captain of the guard lay face-up and staring, throat slashed raw.

"Second time," mumbled Panfilo. Second time and second chances.

"The liberation of _Roma_ has begun," said the newcomer, still gently. He reached out to steady Panfilo's drunken swaying, but there was no pity in the motion. "If you choose to flee, do so now, but if you choose to fight, stand with me against the Borgia." His dark eyes were curious but not startled. He looked at Panfilo's face and did not seem surprised or particularly concerned. "You handle pain very well," he commented. "Fight with me. I could use a man with your skill."

Panfilo was silent. For a moment all he could focus on was the blood drenching his shirt. But the man did not seem disturbed or annoyed. He accepted the quiet as an answer all its own.

"Judging from your clothing, you're a mercenary." He grinned, sudden in the darkness. "Maybe I shouldn't invite you to join, then. Bartolomeo will be after my head with that ridiculous sword of his if I start stealing away his men."

Panfilo worked his jaw until it swung open. He licked his dry lips and found the air. "I'm not a mercenary," he said, tasting something burnt in the words. "I can't be. I can't be remade. And I can't run. There…there isn't a choice."

The man looked confused, but only for a moment. Then he nodded. And Panfilo knew he understood.


	4. Part Four

_The Novice_

Annetta told no one when she joined the Assassin's Order. She went home and gathered some things together, left early in the morning when there was no one else awake. She took two dresses, wore a third, and left all the jewels behind. She did not bother to leave a note. Her encounter with the mysterious Ezio Auditore had ended with his giving her an address to find should she want to join his Brotherhood, and a request-order that she keep quiet about what she was going to do. There was a threat latent in the words: _do not try to report any of this to the Borgia. You will not be rewarded. You will not be safe._

If there was one thing Annetta was used to—if there was one thing she would be given a lot of in the months to come—it was request-orders, expectations wrapped up in polite gauze. So she did not tell her father why she was leaving or where she was going. She was not sure if she knew herself why she was so intent on joining Ezio's strange Brotherhood…she knew nothing about it, nor the man who led it. There were no clear answers.

But it was another way to fulfill her obligations. It was another way to have a purpose and a point. (And still she could not just _be_.)

The address she'd been given was on a small island in a crowded part of the city. A massive building, ringed with storefronts and stands, stood before a small courtyard. Annetta wandered a bit, finding doorways into shops but not into the building itself. For a second, overheating in a heavy dress, she wondered if she'd been given a false address—but from the moment she'd stepped off the bridge and onto the island, she'd felt eyes painted to her back. This was not the wrong address. This was a test.

So she found a bench in the shade and sat. And waited. And after what seemed like three days but was really only half an hour, a man in white—not Ezio Auditore—drifted by. He did not look at her, but she rose to her feet and followed him anyway. The doorway he went towards seemed materialized out of nothingness; certainly she had passed this part of the building a dozen times already, but she'd never noticed a small crevice, in which someone had inserted a door.

The man held the door open and waited. Annetta was nervous as she passed, but from a distance. She caught herself thinking, _right now I am afraid_, as if the emotion was a separate part of her, kept within bounds.

"Good job," the man whispered, shutting the heavy door behind the two of them. "You noticed me but you didn't react. Good instincts." They stood at the top of a stone staircase, a steep one in a small chamber that opened up at the bottom. "Welcome to the Brotherhood. You're one of the few woman I've seen be so brave."

Annetta thought, still in that distant way, that she might be offended. "Have you seen a lot of women, then?" she asked with her dagger-smile.

The man laughed. "Your pardon. That sounded better in my head." He offered a hand. "I'm Tullio. You are…?"

"Are you in charge?" She eyed him, ignoring the hand.

"No—but Ezio always sends out one of us first, to test the new recruit. Last time he picked me I slipped and fell in the damn river."

Annetta nodded. "When do I meet Ezio, then?"

"Now." And Tullio pointed to the bottom of the stairs, and the grand room beyond.

_-i-_

The difficult thing about being an assassin was not the amount of violence it required. It was adjusting to life as part of a whole. Annetta had been raised on distance and careful seclusion. Her life had been a list of proper vs. improper, of marriage chances and the important of names. Joining the Brotherhood was the reverse image of that already-vanished world.

She wasn't the only recruit, for one. There were several other people in the stone hideout; every time she turned a corner there was some hidden passageway and some robed figure awaiting introduction. She wasn't even the only female member: the title of first woman recruit went to Desideria Donati, a sour-faced woman with black hair who had joined after witnessing the murder of a close friend. Despite their similarities in sex, the two women mostly avoided each other: Desideria had a deep-set distrust of the upper classes, and neither woman had ever been good at small talk.

Besides Desideria there was of course Tullio, who was in his late thirties and couldn't go three minutes without cracking a bad joke. He smiled easily, though, and was unconditionally friendly; he bragged ceaselessly about his accomplishments, was always trying to show off the skills his former army career had left him, but also never took offense when told to shut up.

There was Bastiano Pulci, stern and humorless. He generally kept himself apart from the younger recruits, being older even than their master, but he was doggedly loyal and never complained about being sent on missions with novice assassins still weak around the edges. He'd also been Ezio's first recruit into the newborn Brotherhood, and there was a certain honor in that.

There were Nino and Saverino, friends from a distant province who were almost blood brothers in their ability to finish each other's sentences. They were usually sent on missions together, and when in the hideout they were never seen apart.

And there was their leader. There was Ezio Auditore.

He was the one who chose all the assassin novices, spotting them with a careful eye as he traveled Rome. He was not concerned with a person's background or fighting history, but with their dedication to the cause. Annetta asked around, keeping tallies in her head, and realized that all of the recruits had been rescued by him in some shape or form. They all bore him gratitude, and a sense that there were debts to be paid.

Ezio was a strange and enigmatic person, hard to understand on more than a surface level. It was obvious from his expensive armor and the way he carried himself that he was noble-born; Annetta carried herself in much the same way, and could see the traces of nobility in the stiffness of his shoulders. He was always grinning and making sardonic comments and strutting about the streets with a self-important air; he flirted with every woman he met, married or not, in a sort of desultory way. He flirted with her for a bit, but she brushed him off, being more interested in the hideout library than in romance: books were simpler, and more useful. Ezio didn't seem particularly upset, didn't hold it against her—he didn't seem bothered by much at all, really.

But Annetta could never shake off the feeling he'd given her, that day she'd been Found…such a sad, lonely feeling. Why was it that such a handsome, dashing figure had never actually settled down? What was he even _doing_ an assassin? What was he fighting for, and where had his challenge begun?

The Brotherhood certainly didn't seem to lack for money—within a week of her arrival she was gifted a set of robes, and a sword, and even a small pistol. The hideout itself was spacious, filled with stonework and artwork and an entire room dedicated to Ezio's weapons. There were side rooms for the recruits to share, two to a large space (Annetta and Desideria shared, grudgingly). It was unspoken law that novices lived in the hideout; upon joining the Brotherhood became their world in its entirety, and whatever they'd left behind had to be pushed aside.

Only their leader did not live there. Ezio was forever running in and out, caught up in larger missions and other fights. No one was sure where he considered 'home' to be…his accent, though slight, suggested that he had not been born in Rome. Occasionally his mother and sister would visit the hideout, richly dressed and clearly high-class. And yet Annetta had been told they co-ran a brothel. There was a lot about this new life that did not make sense.

When Ezio _was_ around, he oversaw their training. For months Annetta was taught sword fighting by Bastiano, who was kind enough in his gruff way not to mention her lack of experience with anything sharper than a fencing rapier. Often she would be deposited on some rooftop and told to make it back to the hideout within a set timeframe, and without alerting any guards. Sometimes she ran alongside other assassins, to learn teamwork: she began to tolerate Tullio, who filled potentially-awkward silences with off-color humor and never blamed her for stumbling and slowing them down. Also once he fell off a roof and into a hay cart, and didn't seem to mind when reserved Annetta broke out into reams of laughter as hay drizzled from his hair.

And to fly across the city—to leap the gaps between buildings—to feel the rush as guards shouted and gave chase—to know that there were others behind, to salvage you if you fell—to find a _purpose_ and to succeed-!

As the assassins rose in rank (for there were ranks to denote skill level, and the recruits were constantly changing in title) they were sent out on missions of their own. In groups, at first, then alone, and then in groups once more: the high-ranking brothers guided the new ones. And not just in Rome. Missions, Annetta learned, could be anywhere; there was more than just the Borgia digging their nails into the city's skin. Nino and Saverino were gone for months to Moscow. Faraway lands and faraway people…nothing Annetta had ever assumed she would know…

And she trained, and rose in the ranks, and went on missions. She was close to the other recruits—closer than she had ever been to her actual family, in fact—but still she was methodical in her movements and still she avoided small talk and idle days. Her newfound brothers accepted this quirk. Even loudmouth Tullio. Time went by in a flurry of training. New recruits joined, older recruits were sent to other cities to start branches of their own. Annetta was sent on a mission to Venice and for the first time was required to kill.

It was not hard.

A thrown smoke bomb and the feel of bone cracked between her fingers. Blood streaming down her hands and in the end it was just so much colored water, gummy but lacking significance. She rose to her Expectations, she'd been told to remove a spy and so she had. To the Brotherhood was given complete loyalty: there was a debt to be paid, and she never fled from what was required. Annetta Barbieri was no coward.

(She never thought about her dead fiancé, but if she had, she would have compared the color of his blood to the colors of the blood she was learning to shed. She would have felt some sort of pride, knowing she was avenging the destiny she'd lost.)

She collected her own scars, satisfied with their permanence. Other novices reacted differently to their first kills, poor Tullio was pale and silent for a week, but Annetta took mental notes on how a body twitched in its death throws and resolved next time to do cleaner work. She trained. She learned stealth and suspicion and how to aim a crossbow without looking. She was meticulous and systematic. In her free time she read, working her way from one side of the bookshelf to the other. There were times when she forgot she was any different than her fellow assassins: her goal of marriage were put aside, and it was always something of a shock to take off her white robes and replace them with a dress.

Occasionally now she practiced with Ezio himself. He kept himself guarded, hidden under layers of costume and assumed role. Annetta did the same. But Ezio was deadly, so skilled with a blade and with his fists that he didn't seem real, and in their fighting they learned more about each other than would ever be spoken in words. Her lost husband-to-be, taking her future to the grave along with his ruined corpse. His sense of duty. Ezio, Annetta slowly came to realize, did not want to be the master assassin that he was. He understood her need to fulfill her obligations because he was so bent under the weight of his own.

Yes, the goals of the Assassin's Brotherhood ran deeper than the Borgia. Ran deeper than Rome.

_-i-_

"The Templars are on the move in London."

Ezio turned to stare at the recruits gathered in a respectful bunch before him. The main room was crowded; all available assassins had been called to this meeting. Annetta, Bastiano, Desideria, Saverino and Nino. Several newer men.

"We've had spies following their movements for a while. They seek to disrupt the assassins at work there." Ezio paused here, glancing at the new men to make sure they fully understood. The Borgia, cruel as they were, could only be considered one finger on an outstretched hand. _Templars_, as Ezio explained personally to each recruit. By now, Annetta could recite the speech by heart:

There were assassins and there were Templars. Since the start of history Templars had sought to control the world, and assassins had sought to prevent this slavery from taking hold. Once both groups had worked out in the open—Ezio always mentioned Altair, a master assassin from heathen lands who had supposedly been the best in the Order—but times and fancies had long since changed. For too long the assassins had been forced to work underground, meeting in secret to watch as their enemies grew more organized and bolder.

It had been Ezio's idea to bring the Order back aboveground. It had been his idea to start new hideouts: he called them bureaus and ensured they were well-supplied. He was tapping into the anger of Rome, unleashing it upon its own origins. A smart move: even Annetta felt chills down her spine when she sent Borgia men running. Ezio had given her power…or else pulled it from where it had lain dormant all her life.

"Most of you will go to London to deal with this threat. Take back whatever documents the Templars might have stolen." The master looked at his recruits. "Annetta, Bastiano, you'll stay behind, with the new men." He indicated the new men in question, and then—

There was the sound of booted footsteps on stone, and Tullio appeared at the foot of the stairs, soaking wet but still grinning. With him was a stranger, tall and muscular, with callused hands. He was wearing a hood, one that covered both his hair and the lower half of his face, so that only his eyes were visible.

Those eyes…Annetta caught herself staring. They were friendly eyes, despite the looming bulk of their owner. And they were strong. And maybe a bit uneasy, somewhere down below.

Ezio nodded. "Good. This is the other novice you'll train while everyone else is gone. Panfilo. He was a mercenary once, so he shouldn't need much work."

Annetta kept staring. Panfilo was glancing around the hideout, curious. He nodded at his new brothers, but did not lower the mask or greet them. Ezio was unruffled.

"Bet I could teach him some tricks," Tullio bragged. "Let me stay behind and I'll get all these novices into shape."

Ezio quirked an eyebrow. (He really was handsome, Annetta thought, but he really wasn't _interesting_: he was his mysteries, and should she figure them out all his allure would vanish.) "Did you fall into the river again?" he wanted to know.

The rest of the assassins snickered; Panfilo's eyes looked like they were laughing too. (His eyes were too soft for such a large, guarded man. What face was he hiding behind his mask?)

Tullio groaned, but kept grinning. "I was trying to keep this one from seeing me too soon. Bastard's got good instincts, and he's stubborn too. Kept looking for me, all suspicious. I had to dive for cover at one point and the goddamn river was all I had."

There was some friendly jeering from the rest of them. Ezio just snickered, which was a taunt in itself. Annetta thought about it and allowed herself a quick chuckle. Panfilo moved to join the group, his movements all polish and ease despite his size. He came to stand near her, and she looked him up and down.

"We'll begin practice on the rooftops tomorrow," she told him in lieu of an introduction. "If you were a mercenary then you shouldn't have a problem." He nodded. "Bastiano will test both our skills with the blade." Another nod. For someone who didn't talk it wasn't hard to keep the conversation going: there was a stillness to the new man that suggested the silence was a natural part of his being. Better an intelligent silence than a meaningless chatter.

Tullio came swaggering up to them, arms outstretched. Annetta dodged his grasp. "You smell like a sewer," she told him.

"It's the damn _Tiber_," he protested. "The Borgia use it as a dumping ground for their shit and their dead."

"So maybe you shouldn't swim in it so often?"

"Give me something else to do, _signora_." He grinned.

"Practice your free running," she suggested. "Then you won't fall in the river so often and come back here smelling like Borgia waste."

Tullio staggered back, mock-grief on his face. "So cruel! No heart at all!"

Annetta shrugged. She'd only been telling the truth.

_-i-_

They trained together for three weeks, Annetta and Panfilo, and not once did she hear his voice. Not once did she need to. It was obvious that the new novice had been well-trained as an mercenary, for he fought well and learned hard. He could practice for hours at a time, ignoring exhaustion and sore muscles; Annetta found her own stamina increasing in her efforts to train him well. There was some tenderness in his wrists, which he informed her in gestures had been twice-broken, but he fought through the pain. Annetta, who looked down on using frailty as an excuse, was impressed.

They parried with fists or weapon long into the night, night after night. There were so many new skills to master: hidden blades, pistols, the proper use of smoke bombs and poison. With every increase in rank came either a better-made sword or a stronger piece of armor—Ezio only gave out equipment as the assassins proved they deserved it—and thus more training, to get used to the different feel. Afterwards they would return to the hideout, where there was always some sort of controlled chaos underway. Especially when Tullio was around.

Annetta still spent much of her free time both reading and ignoring her master's occasional attempts at flirting. In the background there would usually be novices running around, sparring or arguing or researching missions. Sometimes word would reach them that Ezio required their assistance elsewhere in the city and a couple would take off, always in pairs. There were moments of monotony and moments of levity: Tullio, escaping soldiers during a mission, dove into a haystack to wait only to hear Ezio curse as he ran by, followed by what sounded like half the Roman army. The novice jumped out to help, stabbing a nearby guard through the back of the throat with his hidden blade. Ezio was grateful, considering it pretty much _had_ been half the Roman army after him—but he was also a bit confused as to what Tullio had been doing in the haystack to begin with.

"He thinks I'm some stalker, some crazy _idiota_," Tullio groaned in the retelling of the story. He retold said story a dozen times, to a dozen different assassins, but with that cheerful grin that made it impossible for anyone to get too annoyed.

(And it _was_ pretty funny how Ezio tried to avoid Tullio these days.)

It was Tullio who, inspired by Panfilo's mercenary background, dragged a bunch of his fellow recruits into the massive hall used for ceremonies and Ezio's private meetings with outside forces. There he cajoled until enough people agreed to bet on his fighting whoever. He fought Desideria and lost, fought Nino and won, fought Bastiano and almost got his face crushed in. Annetta sat with one eye on the mayhem and one eye on her book. Panfilo stood nearby, back to the wall; his default position was to stand in the background and watch without joining in, but no one cared because he seemed so perfectly content to do so (though, here and now, Annetta thought she saw a flicker of homesickness in his too-soft eyes).

Finally Nino took Tullio's spot in the ring, and the assassin came wandering by with an eye already starting to purple. "Bastard Bastiano," he swore. "I'll get him next time. Throw him in the river, see if he sinks." He nudged Panfilo. "Bet you the next mission with Desideria that he can't swim a stroke."

Panfilo bobbed his head, agreeably. It wasn't that he refused to ever speak—if you forced him, if you cornered him into an answer that couldn't be given with a head shake or hard stare, he would respond. Softly, as if to hide the full stretch of his voice, but still…he _would_ talk, if he had to.

It was just that no one wanted to force him. As he settled into life in the hideout, the other recruits became used to his silent answers and his chatty eyes. When he did talk, it was never without wearing an oddly pained look, and protecting each other from unnecessary suffering was a tenant of the Brotherhood.

Tullio turned to head back to the ring. "Bet you the next three missions with Desideria I win this next fight!" he called over his shoulder.

(Annetta considered the matter and decidedly—a bit icily—that Desideria was tolerably pretty. Probably. Not that she was worth placing bets over…she snored in her sleep.)

_-i-_

Annetta had been part of the Brotherhood for a year and five months. She stood on top of a building not far from the hideout and waited. She knew patience well, knew dedication even better. The square far below her was thronged with people: it was a busy market day, and, as always, there was an overabundance of Borgia guards to scan the crowds. The sun was hot against the back of her neck, but her white robes fit her perfectly and caught every casual breeze. Her eyes seemed a lighter shade of blue than usual, held under the fractured light.

Panfilo stood by her and waited. He knew patience just as well.

The two assassins were not speaking, did not speak, but they'd been carrying a conversation for the two hours they'd been on the assignment. _The sun is making your hair lighter than usual_, Panfilo's eyes noticed. _Tullio is going to come up with some bad joke about blondes if you're not careful._

_Tullio_? Annetta's eyes registered their exasperation. _He mistakes being loud for being clever._

Panfilo nodded, short and sharp, but then shrugged his shoulders. _He is friendly, though, _the shrug said. _And fun._

_ He is himself_, and Annetta's expression would not grant anything more than that.

At first, Annetta had answered his not-statements with words aloud, but she'd learned how to wield silence for herself in the year that had passed. There were times when she wondered how he'd learned, whether it was forced or preferred, but that was one question he'd never answer, with words or otherwise.

(Another question he wouldn't hear: _what do you look like underneath your mask_?)

Ezio saw how well they worked together and paired them up quite often. Annetta was methodical and intelligent; Panfilo a quick learner and fast. Other assassins came and went, to Lisbon and Constantinople and Calicut, but they were given Rome to secure. They supported their master when he needed their help, and they trained in the hideout with sword and spear, and they stood on rooftops in wait.

And Panfilo almost never spoke, and when he did he whispered so that there was no way to tell anything at all about his voice. He never took his mask off; he alone of the recruits had his own room.

"There." Annetta pointed, using her voice but only just. "See him? He's in the square."

Panfilo looked. Their target, some rich nobleman who donated generously to Cesare's personal coffers, always stopped at this market but was taking his time today. The former mercenary shook his head: _too many guards. If we assassinate him here it'll start a bloodbath._

Annetta pursed her lips. She'd learned through word of mouth that her father had fled the city and his vanished daughter months ago, and the knowledge made her feel more detached than ever about killing her targets.

_If it is our duty, it must be done._

Panfilo shook his head again. _You worry too much about duty and obligation. Fight because you want to save Rome._

"He's moving," she almost snapped. "He'll pass under that archway in a second. I'll leap down from there, cut through his skull. You can keep his guards off until I'm finished."

Panfilo's face was as hidden as ever behind his robes of deep red-brown (dark as rust), but Annetta imagined his face more often than she liked, and she imagined a frown upon it now.

"They're soldiers," she argued, "They're Borgia. They chose their lives."

_They're the city guard, not Borgia. They don't know the first thing about who they're protecting. They're mercenaries on a shorter leash._

Annetta moved forward, towards the arch a few rooftops down. Panfilo touched her arm, pointed past the square. Their nobleman was headed towards a set of stone steps. But she brushed him off, out of the mindset necessary to read his eyes. This was the _mission_. She had already deduced the steps. Now all that was left was to follow them: was to walk the correct path because it led to the correct outcome and the outcome was all that mattered—

Panfilo took off running.

"Hey-…" Annetta ran after him, but gave up on the next rooftop. He was faster than her by far: she'd never catch him if he didn't want to be caught. As she watched, Panfilo swung down from a balcony ledge to street level and somehow vanished into the crowd despite his size and garb. He always _did_ this—he moved with a cat's grace, with the smoothness of a person half his size.

But Annetta, after a year, had assassin's eyes, and she picked his form out of the crowd. She saw him slip past the unaware and unconcerned until he was right behind the nobleman's guards. Then—somehow—he slipped in between the guards and their charge, pushing his shoulder into the man just as he neared the top of the stairs…

He was gone before the guards could react, before they could remember how slippery the worn stone was. The nobleman slipped and fell, an ungainly mass, to land in a heap at the bottom. There were, no doubt, some snickers from the civilians and maybe even from some of the guards. The snickers died when the nobleman did not rouse himself from his awkward pose.

It was doubtful he'd hurt himself too hardly in the fall, there weren't that many stairs. Panfilo knew this, and it explained the bloody circle slowly gathering on the nobleman's back. Annetta considered the spectacle from where she stood…Panfilo had learned to use the hidden blade quite well.

She waited with her arms folded. Cries of alarm echoed up from the road. Ten minutes or so went past, and then she saw a hand reach up to grab the edge of the roof. Panfilo pulled himself back up and stared at her, eyes grinning.

"Clever," she allowed. "But that wasn't the plan."

A shrug: _it was improvising._ Annetta rolled her eyes. Maybe she laughed a little, too.

_-i-_

The Order's newest recruit was a short man with messy hair and clumsy hands. Ermanno Erba was dutiful and good-natured and eager to help—he just had no talent for the job. A penniless poet by trade, he was as likely to drop the sword as swing it, as likely to stab a civilian in the back as a Borgia guard. But he _meant_ well, and his hapless shrug after every lost throwing knife or scratched piece of armor was what saved him from quick eviction.

It did not, however, save him from Tullio. The loudmouth wasted no time in coming up with endless jokes for which Ermanno was the butt. It seemed that Tullio started every conversation with, "Did you see what that bumbling novice did last night?"—especially if the bumbling novice in question was standing within hearing range.

In no time at all, Tullio and Ermanno were the closest of friends.

(Tullio liked having someone who would listen to him at all times; Ermanno liked having someone to listen to. Plus the latter was incredibly easy to boss around.)

So it all led up to the current situation: Annetta stood with Tullio, watching Ermanno train with Ezio in the great hall. The master assassin was exasperated, to say the least. Tullio was shouting encouragement wrapped in insults.

"No," Ezio said for the hundredth time, "Don't come charging at me with your arms held like that. You're leaving every organ you've got wide open for the kill. See?" He demonstrated with a quick jab of his blade that came within inches of Ermanno's stomach. "You're a fighter, not a lover. Keep your legs closed before someone jabs you with his sword."

"Ay, he won't get the metaphor," sighed Tullio. "He's more accustomed to swordplay than sex." Ermanno tried again, hesitantly. "With more force. Find some passion! Pretend Master Ezio is a lovely lady with no gown!"

Annetta stepped neatly on his foot. "Careful," she said, "because the lovely lady still has a sword."

Tullio, after a moment, groaned.

Panfilo came in just then, and Annetta went to his side out of sheer habit. They watched in their silence as Ermanno dropped his sword a third time.

"He's checking it for quality," Tullio cried. "He's no assassin, he's the apprentice for the blacksmith next door! Who let him in?"

Ezio said, "You should stop leaving the door open. This place is meant to be secret."

At the word _secret_, Panfilo tapped Annetta on her shoulder. She glanced back at him and saw the question in his gaze. She saw hesitation there as well, and…something else she still couldn't read…

And without a pause she turned her back on the rest of them and followed him from the room.

_-i-_

His room was dark, sparsely furnished, cold. It was as quiet as its owner. Annetta stood waiting for—for her orders, really. Because her life was caged in orders. She stood waiting to be told her obligations to the other man. But Panfilo could tell her nothing. He came up to her in the dark room, his big hands skirting her shoulder blades, and she felt the strength of him, and the weight.

"What are you asking of me?" she managed, struggling to stay separated from the emotion of it all. She expected one of his rare whispered answers: surely this was more than could be said in a glance. Annetta waited for her orders. She was ready for them, she thought.

Panfilo took her face in his hands and kissed her, mask and all. She was left to choose as she saw fit: there were no obligations in the rough cloth against her lips.


	5. Part Five

AN: I should probably mention that Panfilo doesn't actually have a face full of scarring and woe in the game. But he does wear a mask, and, y'know..._mysterious_.

_

* * *

Part Five: The Assassin_

Sometimes, secure within the grasp of the Brotherhood, it was hard to tell that time had passed. Sometimes it was all too clear.

Ezio was rarely in the hideout these days, and when he was there he locked himself in one of the small side rooms for hours, arguing names and places with his sister and Niccolò Machiavelli. None of the assassin recruits were sure exactly what the arguments were about, but Cesare Borgia was at the heart of everything.

"Maybe we'll be sent to kill him soon," Tullio suggested. "Him and his ass of a father both."

"You can't kill the _Pope_." Ermanno, once-devout, was aghast. "They send you to Hell for that."

Tullio slung an arm around his cringing shoulders. "Relax," he said cheerfully. "They aren't going to send a blacksmith's apprentice to kill _Il Papa_. You can stay here and keep cutting yourself with your own sword. Meanwhile those of us with actual skill will handle the big boys."

Annetta glanced over from her usual position beside the bookcase in the armory. Tullio, Ermanno, and a dozing Nino were sitting in a lazy circle on the floor, supposedly cleaning their chest guards and braces. Panfilo was standing in the corner, separate from the group and yet part of the whole. Annetta was acutely aware of his presence, of his eyes resting lightly on her back.

"The Master won't send any of us to kill Cesare," she told them, pulling a book free from the shelf. "Ezio will kill him personally."

"I heard he almost killed the Pope once already," Ermanno said. "I was passing by when he was having one of his secret meetings in the grand hall and I heard his sister say something about it. 'Don't hesitate this time.' I think that's what she said."

"Just passing by, eh?" Tullio leered. "I bet. Just hoping you'd pass her in the halls and she'd flutter those lovely eyelashes at you. 'Oh, I've always wanted to have a blacksmith's apprentice go down between my—"'

The book in Annetta's hands had proven dull but heavy. She aimed and sent it flying into the back of Tullio's skull.

"Ow," he yelped. "_Che cosa_? It's not my fault the Master has an attractive goddess for a sister. Christ, I see those legs of hers in that short skirt and I can't stand straight all week."

"She's an assassin too," Annetta reminded him. Ermanno scrubbed furiously at his armor in the background, ears bright red. "And not a novice trying to rise through the ranks, either. If she hears you, you won't stand, period."

"So maybe you should keep me busy instead—_ay_, never mind, bad joke! Forget I said a thing." This last part as the energy from the corner of the room took a sudden turn for the worse.

Nino drifted awake from his nap to murmur an approving, "Don't grab for what isn't yours."

'"I'm a 'what' now?" Annetta wanted to know, but was drowned out by Tullio, not for the first time.

"Who asked for your input?" he squawked to Nino. "Shouldn't you be off sharing Saverino's shadow?"

"He's still in Paris," Nino said. "Won't be back for another month."

"You must be aching with loneliness." Tullio gave a wicked little smirk. "You can tell me, I'll only judge you a little…" Nino hit him and rolled over to go back to sleep.

Annetta sat down beside the bookcase, folding her legs underneath her with her back to the wall. She stared down at the book in her lap, but her mind was elsewhere. "Why would the Master hesitate in killing a Borgia?" she wondered. "He's the best fighter out of any of us."

Ermanno huffed. "Maybe 'cause you're not supposed to _kill the Pope_," he said.

"I'm just as good a fighter as he is," Tullio added. "Maybe not as good with the ladies, Christ in Heaven he's got a gift when it comes to getting inside skirts—but I could hold my own against him in a battle, no question."

"He'd slice your hands off in his sleep," Nino demurred.

"Weren't you _sleeping_? And you're wrong. It's our hopeless friend here who'd be wearing stumps."

"I've gotten a lot better," Ermanno protested. "I've reached _Assistente_."

"And it only took you five months. For a while I never thought it was going to happen. Our blacksmith's apprentice would be First Rank forever!"

"We aren't talking about me, we're talking about why Master Ezio would fail to kill a target—"

"Maybe he couldn't," Panfilo said, in that scratchy whisper-voice that wasn't really a voice at all. The others, as one, fell silent. Annetta studied the strip of him not hidden by his mask, which she by now knew so well. "Maybe he was scared."

Tullio, despite his mouth, was a decent person who rarely let himself be swayed. So he broke the awkward silence that always formed after Panfilo spoke, and for that Annetta was grateful. "Ezio, scared? Maybe of his sister. Not of a Borgia dog."

"He wasn't always an assassin," Panfilo said. "People can't always be remade."

Annetta stared hard at him. Even Tullio had nothing to say.

"Finished," Ermanno said then, with relief. His armor sat in a neat heap on the floor beside him. The mood broke. Panfilo settled back into his corner. Annetta opened her book and tried to read.

Tullio leaned forward and dumped his chest plate in Ermanno's lap. "Clean mine?"

_-i-_

Annetta slipped past her sleeping roommate and went to Panfilo's room, as she did most nights. And he was gentle and attentive and held her with strapping arms, as he did most nights. His body was perfectly in tune with her own. But the mask, as ever, stayed on.

It had been a long day, the latest in a long line of long days. There were fewer missions lately, and always in faraway places. Saverino wasn't the only assassin months from home: Bastiano wouldn't be back from Spain until winter's end. The last time she'd seen Ezio, he'd had dark circles under his eyes and his hands were bandaged. Something potent and terrible was coming, something that would either remake Rome or send her crashing down in flames…but until it came there was only the dreary boredom of minor tasks and endless training sessions. Annetta was used to stillness and knew she should enjoy the calm while it lasted, but so many days of it were starting to grate. What purpose was she fulfilling by sitting around?

So in the heady darkness, surrounded by quiet and comfort and trust, she reached forward, dreamily. (And she never felt this ethereal when outside this room.) The bed sheets rustled. She nestled one hand in the thick of Panfilo's hair, enjoying the small, appreciative noise he made deep in his throat. His eyes were closed, but she knew assassin's instincts and moved her right arm up in slow inches anyway.

Her fingers grasped fabric and she pulled. There was the feel of rough skin and she saw the beginning of discolored flesh—

Panfilo grabbed both her arms and sat up. She fought to keep from falling over as he tugged her up with him. He released her quickly, but his eyes were darker than she'd ever seen them.

_No._ He wouldn't meet her gaze. _Don't do that. Don't ever do that._

"Why not?" she demanded. Panfilo winced at the sudden loudness, but Annetta was in no mood to communicate in blinks and shrugs. "It's been months, and I don't know what you _look_ like."

_Does it matter?_ He reached for a lock of blonde hair, but she pulled away. So he shrugged and looked down at the small table beside the bed, where her hairbrush rested. The brush was a fine one, with a carved handle. It was one of the few things she'd taken with her to the hideout, all those months and months ago. Annetta saw him looking at it and anger flared—and then she began the instinctive process of separating herself from her emotion, from the immediacy of a moment she'd never learned to handle. Her voice went dull.

"So that's what you think? I'm just another high-class woman fixated on appearances? Do you think I'll start ignoring you if your nose is too big? How many men have I killed? How many men have we killed _together_?"

_Then it shouldn't matter._

"I can't care for other reasons? It _matters_, Panfilo. Whether you want it to or not." Her hands were knotted in anger against the bedspread. She stared at them as if they were foreign things. "I've given you everything I had to give," she added, not without bitterness.

_No, it isn't…please don't think…_

"If you have something to tell me, open your mouth and speak. You can do that, you know. I'm tired of playing charades."

_You are beautiful. _He grasped those unfamiliar hands, covering them with his own. _And you are so wise. I'll fight for you forever. We don't have to worry about the rest._

"Don't tell me you'll stay with me. I don't need your protection." Annetta's voice was starting to shake, and it scared her. She didn't cry—she hadn't cried when her fiancé was killed, she hadn't cried when for weeks afterward her father acted as if she'd raised the knife herself. She hadn't cried when she stood trapped in a crowded street with a useless sword in her hands, stood watching as the soldiers came closer, stood there knowing she was going to _die_—

Annetta did not cry. She did not trust the act, and she did not trust the emotion that caused it. She was no coward: she faced her problems, or else she let them consume her, as once she had rocked her bewildered grief in her arms.

_Listen_, _Annetta. _Panfilo looked at her. His eyes were so beseeching… _I can't be melted down like steel. Please understand. The Brotherhood has given me a way to keep going, but it can't change everything. I can't be made competently anew. _

Annetta slid off the bed and bent down to pick up her scattered clothing. She dressed quickly, feeling eyes boring into the curve of her spine, and marveled at the tightness in her throat.

_Annetta._ But she had turned her back, and could not read the plea in his eyes.

"I'm not afraid of what you look like," she said, but still without looking. That way she could pretend not to know his response. "It's your choice to wear a mask. But you haven't ever actually kissed me. You expect me to be satisfied with your keeping me at arm's length—"

"Hypocrite," he whispered. She refused to let the door slam behind her as she left the room.

_-i-_

Annetta stopped in the front room to catch her breath. There was a hard lump in her throat that she still wasn't letting herself think about. She stood by the corner filled with medical supplies and gave in to strangled thoughts. The goal was…her obligations were…the next step should be…

She was blank. Panfilo had been the one person willing to accept Annetta as she was, without heaping duty upon her shoulders. Was this the inevitable result?

Footsteps on cold stone and she whipped her head around—but it was Ermanno's sleepy face she saw emerge from the hallway. He was fully dressed in his assassin's robes, sword strapped to his side. When he saw her, he bobbed his head in a polite little bow.

"Why are you awake?" she asked. Her voice was so bare even she noticed. Ermanno didn't catch on.

"Mission just came through. One of La Volpe's men caught a Borgia courier and he has important information. Too important to wait until morning."

"You're going alone?"

"No, I'm—"

"What, alone? Why send a blacksmith's apprentice to do an assassin's job?" Tullio stepped out from the hallway, the usual grin plastered to his face. "I'm just taking him along in case I dull my blade."

Annetta rolled her eyes. "It won't surprise me at all if he reaches top rank before you."

"What? Never. I'll bet you anything. If I'm wrong I'll never again have impure thoughts for that luscious roommate of yours. Frankly I'd rather have them about you anyway but Panfilo would draw-and-quarter me, no question. Probably use my liver as a pillow or something."

"It's an easy mission," Ermanno said. "We should be back by noon."

"Ten-thirty," corrected Tullio. "Only a real novice gets back _on time_."

"Ten-thirty, then," Ermanno conceded. He grinned a bit at Annetta, and despite herself she smirked back. "Maybe eleven."

"Don't doubt me, third-rank assassin. Or is that third rate? Anyway, don't doubt a near-master when he says that playing glorified errand boy will take no time at all…hey, where did I put my pistol?"

"You left it in the armory," said Ermanno, and Tullio went into the next room with a curse. "I'm amazed he hasn't lost it altogether yet…"

Annetta said, "Now I understand why Ezio pairs the two of you together so often."

Ermanno laughed. "I don't mind. Honestly, I like accompanying Tullio. He never makes fun of me when he actually has to fix my mistakes. And he waits for me to catch up."

The assassin in question darted back into the room. "Don't gossip about your Brothers so casually, it's rude—_where_ did you say I left my pistol?"

Annetta left to the sound of their chatter. She returned to her room and fell into her bed without bothering to undress. There was exhaustion coating her bones, but sleep evaded her for hours. Finally she fell into a deep and dreamless sleep. It was a heavy rest, and she awoke sluggish and over-tired a little past two in the afternoon, to the sound of high-pitched screams from the front room. She staggered to her feet, taking in her empty surroundings as if she did not understand them, and outside her door the shrieking continued, tearing the air apart.

_-i-_

When Annetta finally made it to the front room, everyone else was already there. _Ezio_ was there, and she thought dumbly that it had been weeks since anyone had seen him last. Then she noticed the expression he wore, and it was too frightening to look at for long, so she averted her gaze. Not that there was any comfort to be found elsewhere in the room.

Nino stood off a little ways, arms wrapped around himself, looking lost and half-there without Saverino. Desideria stood in a small group of newer recruits, one hand over her mouth and one hand clenched at her side, as if unsure whether to scream or strike. She did neither. There were other assassins, men and women, people Annetta had seen launch themselves from tall buildings into the empty sky. None of them were moving. No one looked as they had last night, and she had trouble recognizing the Brothers she'd shed blood beside.

The screams were coming from the center of the small huddle. Panfilo was there, and she drew in a sharp and splintered breath, but he was too busy to see her. He was kneeling on the floor; the arms that had held her so many times were holding someone else now. Ermanno Erba thrashed in his steady grip, face twisted in wrenching agony. He wailed as if he had forgotten himself. Annetta saw the blood drenching the front of his robes and wondered why no one had moved to bandage his wounds. Then she realized that his face was far too flushed, his movements far too wide…there was far too much strength left in him for all that blood to be his.

And she did not see Tullio anywhere.

"I couldn't—we walked in and there were so many—" Ermanno sobbed, clutched at Panfilo's shirtfront. The larger man held his fists to keep him from hurting himself. "We tried to…so many…and Tullio said we had to escape but the building was so _high_ and I couldn't hold on _long_ enough and I almost slipped. _Ahh_…" He gasped. Then he screamed again and buried his head against Panfilo. Annetta glanced to see Ezio, still standing motionless and terrifying.

"S-So he came back to get me but it…it slowed him down and I couldn't…God, I never…ahh…I never _asked_ him for help, I never did, _never_, he was never supposed to, he never—_God_!" Panfilo shushed Ermanno, as his words turned back to sobs.

"Ezio, this is my fault." Annetta looked up to see a man she did not recognize, tall and thin and wearing a brown cloak. He held out his arms in supplication. "I should have realized my thief was also a rat. I lost several of my men…I know it doesn't comfort any…"

Ermanno mumbled, "They had him. Too many of them had him. I wanted to stay but there was so many and he kept pushing me back…"

"I've had to abandon the whole guild house," the stranger said softly. "It's infested with Borgia. I'm sorry. I know you would have wanted the body back."

Ermanno moaned. Annetta felt, below her shock, the beginnings of a grief she had kept away for years. Before, she had grown it as a separate thing, but now it reached to embrace her. It was no longer in her control.

"It was a direct order from Cesare," said the stranger. "He's scared, Ezio, scared of you and your entire organization. He'll sack half of Rome to get his hands on one assassin."

Ezio bared his teeth. "We will discuss this further," he said, biting off every word. "I will lose no one else to that _figlio di puttana_. Screw his mother!" He turned, hate streaming from his eyes, to face the silent, stunned recruits. Annetta would wonder later who else her Master had lost.

"Take care of him," the master assassin told them, as calmly as he could manage. Then he was gone, trouncing into the grand hall with the tall stranger following. The sound of the door being slammed shook the walls.

"_Merda_," Nino hissed.

Then Panfilo rose to his feet. He alone seemed to know how to wade through the sickening quiet without being sucked down. Ermanno's screams had softened to a near-constant moaning; his hands kept scratching at the air, finding neither purchase nor peace. Annetta watched as the masked assassin led the weeping one from the room, step by careful step. She caught only a glimpse of Panfilo's eyes as he passed.

No one else noticed his expression. Annetta herself wouldn't have noticed if she wasn't so adept at reading the words in his gaze. She stared at his back, dread icing her spine, and remembered Ezio's unnerving glare.

She couldn't decide whose expression was more alarming.

"Now what?" Nino was standing at her shoulder now; she hadn't seen him move over, which was disconcerting. (An assassin should never lose track of her senses. An assassin should never be caught by surprise.) "We don't even have a body…"

It was wrong for him to be speaking so openly, in a room so crowded and so quiet. Annetta wasn't sure why, but she knew it was. _Stupid girl_, she chided herself, for not realizing. _Panfilo's known all along…!_

"A stupid courier assignment," Nino said, furious. "Who could have expected this?"

Annetta felt her throat close up and she—

_detach_

—shook her head, almost icy, definitely brusque. "We all should have expected this," she said. "Master Ezio warned us when we joined that we might be called upon to give up our lives." It wasn't an answer. Wasn't a comfort. Sounded hollow even to her ears.

Nino stared at her. "You are _cold_," he said in horrified awe. And Annetta couldn't begin to explain.

_-i-_

But if nothing else, she was right. The assassins had grown used to death.

It was the first loss their Order had suffered, yes: the first time they'd been outsmarted so completely. It was the first loss, but it wouldn't be the last, and the only surprise was that it had taken so long for it to happen. Annetta sat by the bookcase in the armory, her usual spot, and gazed out at the empty room. She felt the weight of the hideout pressing down on her. For the first time, she couldn't decide whether the Brotherhood was accomplishing much of anything, in reality. Whether _she_ was accomplishing anything.

She was unused to questioning her loyalties…she had never turned her back on duty. But to sit here and accept the loss…

She could have done it, a year ago. She could have done it six months ago. Annetta was skilled at adapting when people and places and memories were torn away. Had she suffered even one nightmare after her fiancé's death? Had she felt even the mildest pangs of homesickness since turning away from the future she couldn't have?

Six months ago, she could have accepted Tullio's death, could have left it alone. But now she mulled over her answer to Nino, hours before, and throughout the hideout the assassins bustled as they always did. In grief, perhaps, or in anger, but there was a job to be done and they could not linger. Annetta couldn't understand what had changed in her that would no longer allow her to do the same.

Suddenly, talk of obligation seemed an excuse, and not a particularly convincing one. Suddenly she didn't feel as if she was an Expectation, rising to meet her challenges for fear of being left with nothing. She was reaching for nothing, had no path to follow. What, then, did she have left?

Panfilo had grown accustomed to his subtle world of silences and hidden looks. He hid the bits of himself that he could not fix, and he kept going. He did not attach himself to some vague notion of duty, he did not cut out the bits of himself that felt passion and personal opinion. He fought because he wanted to, future prospects be damned.

Only he wasn't able to face his scars, she thought. He couldn't admit them, whatever they were. Was she to accept this? Was she to ignore him, all of them, because they did not need to be there for her responsibilities to be upheld? Certainly it would be _easier_…

"_You must let the world know you rule it, Annetta."_

She rose to her feet to the sound of footsteps. Nino. He stood in the doorway and could not meet her eyes. "I came to see where you were," he muttered. "We had a training session planned for today."

"And you still want to have it?"

He shrugged. There was a distant hurt in his gaze. Annetta softened. He had not been destroyed by that hurt—he was acknowledging his grief by name, and yet he was not letting it take control. "We might as well," he said. "Why not?"

There was a pause while they both considered his answer. Eventually she nodded. "Even if you find me too cold?"

Nino sighed. "I didn't mean to insult you…"

"Don't worry. You didn't. Anyway, you were right." Annetta frowned. "Where is…?"

"Ermanno is resting."

"Sedated?" Nino lowered his gaze. "And the master? Where is Ezio?"

"No one's seen him since this afternoon. Everyone else is just trying to keep moving. Desideria went out on an assignment…"

Annetta nodded, slowly. To feel the ache that she'd tried so hard to avoid… "It should not have happened to Ermanno," she said, and her voice shook. This time she didn't try to fight it. Nino, to his credit, hid his surprise well. "It should have happened to one of us. We could have handled it better."

Nino said, "He couldn't have been protected forever. We're assassins, as you said."

"But he hasn't even made his first kill yet!" She hesitated, surprised at the vehemence in her words. "At least, he hadn't before last night."

"Because he kept getting sent out with Tullio. The fool told me how he used to plan his missions so that he'd be the one responsible for all the fighting."

"Tullio said that?"

"Bragging, of course. Almost-Master Tullio, holding off the Borgia single-handedly…"

"Idiot," Annetta said, and she couldn't tell whether Nino smiled or frowned. It didn't matter.

"A complete idiot," he agreed. "The type of idiot who'd try to keep an assassin from killing people, and then brag to cover it up. I never would have guessed that he'd be the protective sort."

"To be fair, Ermanno is a _really_ bad assassin," she said, and then she couldn't keep going because there were tears on her face and since she never cried she didn't know the etiquette. She held up a hand to her face, in wonder, and felt the wetness there. When Annetta glanced up, Nino was looking away, respectful in the way he gave her the moment to herself. But right now that wasn't what she wanted.

"Is Panfilo still with Ermanno?" she asked. "Or has he gone back to his own room?"

Nino's dark eyes narrowed with confusion. "I don't know where he is," he said. "Not in either of those places. To be honest, I'd assumed he was with you…"

Annetta hesitated. "I should have been with him," she admitted after an awkward moment. "It's been almost two years and I'm still getting used to…everything. This Brotherhood. I think I was _just_ getting used to Tullio." And again there were tears, but this time it didn't shock her any.

"_Tullio_ wasn't used to Tullio," Nino said. "But he'd be very annoyed if at his funeral there wasn't plenty of melodrama and hopefully something perverted to chatter about. He gossiped more than a woman. No offense." He said it all very solemnly, but there was something mischievous in his small grin.

Annetta rolled her eyes. "I think he knew more about my relationship than I did…" She trailed off, looking with a strange expression towards the far corner of the armory.

Nino followed her gaze. "What is it?"

When Annetta spoke next, her words came clipped and emotionless. "You don't know where Panfilo is?" she repeated. "He isn't training with someone?"

"I didn't see him anywhere…why? What is it?"

"And he definitely isn't with Ermanno?"

"Not when I checked. What's the matter?"

Annetta pulled away from her mourning, suddenly gone as cool as ever. (Her eyes, however, still blazed with alarm.) She turned and flew out the door, forgetting that a second ago she'd been chatting with Nino even as she said over her shoulder, "His armor isn't on the rack."


	6. Part Six

_Part Six: The Brotherhood_

_Forget penance._

_ (_His armor fit him well. He carried it well. He was not slowed at all by its extra weight.)

_Have you found the bodies yet?_

(And it wasn't hard to figure out where the mission had taken place. There wasn't even the need to rifle through Master Ezio's papers. He had been a mercenary once, after all, and mercenaries often worked with thieves. Within two hours he knew where he was going.)

_What a shame._

(It was.)

_-i-_

Panfilo had slipped around myriad dangers as a boy in Venice. He had survived the captain of the guard's rages. He had led men, and led them well, as a mercenary. And he had found true calling in being one of Ezio Auditore's assassins. For his entire life he had passed from one role to the next as they came. But it was not as survivor or mercenary or assassin that he acted now. And he was not so vain as to consider what he was doing his avenging anybody. He was not that important. He still wore his mask.

So, as murderer or Venice miasma or as some nameless ghost, Panfilo moved across Rome's roofs. His footing was stable, and he knew the way. He passed one guard on the way, and killed the man so swiftly that the death made no sound. Before long what had been a Thieves Guild building was across the street. He stared down at it. This section of Rome was poor and looked it: the streets were narrow and crumbling, the alleys dark, many of the buildings missing windows and doors. This was a section of Rome primed for a bloodbath.

It wasn't yet dark enough. So he sat down by a smokeless chimney and waited. Below him, Borgia soldiers surrounded the guild house in fetid hordes, but he ignored their presence completely. They were not that important, either. What mattered was the body.

Panfilo waited, as clouds raced overhead and soldiers gathered below. Were they expecting someone to attack? Had this all been part of Cesare Borgia's plan? It didn't really matter. He led no men, was tasked with the success of no mission. He lifted a gloved hand and pressed his fingers against his ruined cheek. Even through two layers of cloth he could feel the rough depressions in the skin. How ugly it all was…

There were no conveniently-placed hay carts down below, no crowds to blend into. He would fight his way inside the building with guards at every step. Well-trained guards, no less: several of the soldiers bore the insignia of Cesare's personal troops. Panfilo smiled beneath his mask. The side of his mouth frozen in scar tissue weighed down the side that could still move. Well-trained troops? What of it? Perhaps there'd be wolfmen.

It was dark enough now. Panfilo rose to his feet. His sword was strapped to his waist and banged against his leg when he stood. It was a sturdy blade, it had probably left a bruise—he smiled again, dragging up the contorted flesh. Tilting his head to study the scene in front of the guild house, he saw two guards standing by the front door. There were three patrols of two guards each circling the building. The streets leading to the house had guards as well, but Panfilo wasn't planning to use the streets.

He leapt. The wind whistled in his ears, calling his name.

The two guards by the door were caught by complete surprise. Panfilo recovered quickly from his fall, jumped up and smashed his grasping hands into their respective faces. The hidden blades cut smoothly through muscle and bone, as he knew they would. Shouts came from his left, as one of the patrols rounded the corner, but he'd already had time to pull out his sword.

Panfilo fought grimly. The other patrols came quickly at the sound of battle breaking out, and he was surrounded within seconds, but he was strong and skilled and focused. So focused he almost didn't hear the wind, still whispering his name in insistent waves. There was a pile of bodies forming at his feet. He whirled around, slashing at whoever was near; someone cried, "Assassin!" and then there were even _more_ guards, but none of it mattered.

Then the guild house door banged open. Panfilo had kept his back to the door in order to focus on the men in front of him, but now there were men behind him too, and when he glanced behind him he saw glinting armor and garish helmets.

Papal Guards? He swore without words but had no time to face them. There were too many men in _front_ to deal with now. A poorly blocked blow sent him sprawling and a Papal Guard lunged. The wind yelled—

Annetta wasn't all that heavy, but the sheer force of a body dropping from the roof knocked the Guard off his feet. She drew her blade and stabbed before she'd even had a chance to steady her footing. Panfilo was too busy fighting to react, but he heard her swear as if he was standing still to listen.

"_Idiota_," she snarled in his general direction. "Idi—" A soldier grabbed for her throat and squeezed until she dropped her sword. It was kicked out of reach as she thrashed. The guards in front of Panfilo suddenly weren't enough to distract him and he whirled around. Annetta struggled. Then the arm of the soldier holding her pulled away from its body in a splattering of red ooze. She landed on her feet, and even as she gasped she reached for a smoke bomb with one hand and someone's dropped sword with the other. Panfilo ran his fist into the soldier's jaw, just to make sure.

They fought in sync, protecting each other as the need arose. Annetta's hair was loose and blowing and there was a gash on her cheek. Panfilo could see all five fingers in the fresh bruise around her throat.

Then the smoke bomb went off and he instinctively held his breath. Annetta pointed, mouthing the words he couldn't hear and didn't need. The door was still hanging open, and there were only a couple guards to remove before they could slam it shut behind them. The room they faced now was wide and completely empty…no furniture, no other rooms, no bodies. Annetta panted; Panfilo flexed his aching right wrist.

There were yells from outside, and the locked door shook under the weight of many fists. "Damn," Annetta breathed, and then a second later there was the sound of crashing glass and she cried, "Stay away from the _window_." Fortunately it was too small for anyone to crawl through, but Panfilo watched as she pulled a throwing knife free and aimed. It'd be that much harder to exploit when there was a mountain of bodies in the way.

She threw until she was out of knives, standing off to one side so she couldn't be seen. "They're backing away," she said. "Regrouping."

Panfilo nodded. _That won't take them long_—

But Annetta whirled to face him and jabbed a shaking finger in his face, effectively cutting him off. "_Idiota_!" she hissed. "_Testa di merda!_ Stupid ass! What were you thinking? Do you know what I saw on the way over here? A platoon's worth of soldiers. Ceasare Borgia's handpicked murderers, I bet. He probably thinks he's got Ezio cornered. Did you think you could fight off a hundred Papal Guards by yourself? What did you think you'd find here, anyway? Tullio's body laid out for display? _Vada via in culo!"_

Panfilo winced. Then he shrugged.

"Is that all? You want to cost the Brotherhood another assassin, and all you can do is shrug? Ah—and now you're laughing at me, I can tell that you are. What do you find _funny_?"

_You're usually so calculating. It's nice to see you acting less clinical._

She understood what he was telling her and rolled her eyes. "That's my thanks for helping your suicide mission? I shouldn't have come."

_No. You shouldn't have._ He reached for her chin, tilted her head to the side to get a better look at the gash along her face. She pulled away.

"Enough. It'll scar is all. You…" and her lips curved up mockingly, of their own accord. "You're always so afraid to leave any _marks_. Even in…Haven't I told you I don't mind scars?"

_Because you don't have any._

"What does that mean? I've taken my share of hits with a sword."

_Forget it._

"I didn't follow you here to be ignored."

_Well, you shouldn't have followed. I don't care what misplaced sense of duty you have regarding me, but—_

"This has nothing to do with duty," she said softly. "In case you were wondering. I don't care what this means for my obligations. I'm sure the Master will be less than thrilled, for one."

He looked at her.

"Why are you so surprised? Weren't you the one who told me to only fight for _Roma_ if I wanted save her?"

A slight shrug: _I must have been. Even so._

"If you're going to start lecturing me I'll turn around and ignore you." He nodded his head, but she shook hers, and he realized that she was still very angry. "I should ignore you either way," she blazed, and he was left to stare at her uncertainly as she yelled. "I am tired of not knowing who you are. Did I hold people off? Fine, I did. And I probably will keep doing so in the future. But not now. Not with _you_. Idiot…"

_Leave it. It isn't _important_, Annetta. _

"You act so wise. So big and brave and mysterious, is that your image? I don't care. Why did you run away from the mercenaries? You were a _good_ one, Ezio said so himself. Why won't you tell me anything? If I have to…to _reattach_ myself for you, shouldn't you make the same effort? There is such a large part of you kept locked away—how can you expect me to know who you are?"

_It has nothing to do with you—_

"You should have told me this would be the set-up from the beginning," she snarled. "You should have told me if all you wanted was some half-formed mockery of a relationship! Tullio…" She paused, but only for a moment. Something of the shrewd noblewoman would always be in her blood, and she found a way through the ache. "Tullio is dead and Ermanno is a wreck because of it. You know that. But at least he knows who he is grieving over! If you had been the one to die I wouldn't have known who to mourn. I don't understand how you can expect anything different."

"_Enough_," Panfilo said. "I had to adapt. Can't you accept that? Your prying questions…do you know what you're asking? I adapted. I found a way to avoid pitying eyes, and now you want me to have to face them coming from _you_? I left the mercenaries because I had to. You're so focused on what other people expect of you, so of course you can't understand trying to avoid those expectations. Let it _be_, Annetta…"

But he trailed off when he saw her staring at him, wide-eyed. She'd brought a hand to her throat, reflexively, but not because of the bruise. Panfilo had a moment in which he didn't understand, and then he heard the sound of his own voice in his ears.

Not a whisper. Not a rasp. Something strained from years of disuse, something deep and lilting and familiar…

Panfilo said, "I didn't. I wasn't going to. I." There wasn't any rust. That was one of the bigger surprises, really. His throat was sore.

Annetta moved closer. She reached out and put a hand on either side of his face. Her fingers found the edge of his mask. She waited.

"I don't want you to see," he said. "I can't be forged out of broken bits as if I were made of metal. I don't want…"

Annetta curled her fingers around the cloth and pulled down in one swift motion. The mask fell forgotten around his neck. The guards outside could have regrouped and attacked in one giant wave and no one inside would have noticed. There was a long stretch of silence.

But they were used to silence.

Annetta drew a finger along the worst of the scarring. She studied his cheek, its whorls of faded flesh. She studied the crooked nose, more pronounced when compared with the jagged scars on either side. She saw the way the ruined skin clung over one side of a thin-lipped mouth. Panfilo was still under her touch. His eyes were closed. (And she thought, _how am I to read him now?_ Then she remembered his voice.)

"Annetta," Panfilo said. His new voice was pleading. She focused on its tones, was more caught by its reach than by the reach of his scars. There would be so much more to discover about him now, even with the voice rescued and the mask pulled down. He was more than his mysteries could ever be.

"You had to come," she said, frank in her realization. "You knew Tullio's body wouldn't still be here but you had to come."

He nodded. "I didn't have a choice." His eyes flickered open to meet hers. She shrugged.

"You know how I feel about scars," she said. "Don't think I'd pity you for them. That'd be insulting for both of us."

He managed a smile. "You are so unsympathetic," he said. "The icy noblewoman planning her future."

"Well," she said, "I can only change so much."

Someone outside bellowed something distinctly unfriendly. Panfilo's expression grew thoughtful. Annetta read it by pure habit: _a shame we're probably going to die in the next five minutes. _She twisted her mouth in irritated agreement.

"I wish they would just attack now," she said. "Papal Guards are only so threatening, even head-on." She turned away…her eyes did not linger on his scarred face. He watched her walk to the window. There were more screams from outside, louder and not at all intelligible. Annetta's eyebrows shot up, which for her was a shout of surprise.

Panfilo joined her at the window and saw a familiar flash of white-on-red, hacking its way through a mass of terrified soldiery. No one was paying the guild house the slightest bit of attention.

"The Master," Annetta said slowly. "Rescuing his assassins?"

"I don't think so," Panfilo mused. "He doesn't look like he's trying to reach the building. He just looks…"

"Bloodthirsty," she finished. Something sad flickered in her gaze. "Even Master Ezio should know better than to attack so many soldiers by himself."

Panfilo ran a hand over his warped mouth. "I think he's waiting for Tullio to spring from the haystack."

Annetta accepted the pain that followed—to a point. Then she set the rest aside, for other days. "So am I," she said. "But only cowards run from battle. What good is waiting?" She pulled her blade free from its scabbard.

Panfilo echoed her movements, but before they set out he pulled his mask back up with one hand. Annetta didn't say anything. There was no longer a need.

They went to join the fray.

_-i-_

The great hall was crowded today. All of the assassin recruits; Machiavelli and Claudia, all the other masters of the Order; even Bartolomeo and La Volpe. The thief lord smiled, amused by the proceedings, but the _condottiero _had always disliked ceremonies of any kind and lurked awkwardly in the background. Ermanno was there, still pale and withdrawn, but he was managing to smile and that meant he was having a better day than the day before.

(He would never adapt well to his loss. Everyone knew there was a reason Ezio kept assigning him to low-key stealth missions, which didn't require killing and only rarely required violence at all. Everyone knew there was a reason the single room had been reassigned to him from Panfilo. And no one called him anything but his name, these days.

Things in the Brotherhood had gone back to normal in the four months since Tullio's death, but _normal_ was a different word.)

Ezio was there, of course, dressed impeccably and dripping weapons as always. His bearing was partly for show and partly ingrained, and there were more than a few hidden grins as he strutted his way past the crowds.

"_Laa shay'a waqui'n moutlaq bale kouloun moumkine_," he said, all in a rush. "The wisdom of our Creed is revealed through these words."

Panfilo and Annetta waited for him at the front of the great hall. They both stood stiff in new robes: the white-on-red would require adjusting, but the process was made easier by the knowledge that they were not the first. Bastiano had reached Last Rank two months before; he was the oldest assassin, the first recruit, arguably the best trainer the Order had seen yet. He deserved the honor of the first Ceremony, and no one begrudged him his position at the front of the room with Claudia and the other masters.

Ezio was taking his time getting there, though his position had been carefully arranged to accord him the most respect. He was obviously enjoying being the center of attention—he'd been born to be the master of ceremonies, even for solemn ones such as this.

Annetta rolled her eyes. She shifted, wishing sudden and sharp for her old robes. She'd been so used to them. But she'd adapted to gowns and breeches in their turn—she was no longer an Expectation, but being a Symbol wouldn't prove much more difficult. Without meaning to she raised a hand to the side of her face and felt the outlines of the faint mark there. That wound had scarred, as she'd known it would, and having it was a comfort. Annetta Barbieri would never be a coward.

She _was_ nervous, but she allowed the anxiety to reach her bit by cautious bit. To be a Master Assassin: here, then, was her future. What a strange and lovely thing it was.

Beside her, Panfilo was smiling his little half-smile, and that was a strange and lovely thing all its own—his mask was nowhere to be seen, and no one was surprised, because he wore it so rarely now. Only on bad days, just as Ermanno only kept to his room when things felt sour. Panfilo was in the early stages of growing a beard, brown and already thick and, all right, something that required a bit of an adjustment on Annetta's part. It covered the worst of the scars, though there was still visible marring if you knew where to look. Annetta rarely felt the need to look.

(She _liked_ that smile, though. They'd both realized quickly that flashing it was the quickest way to crack through her ice.)

Ezio had finally reached them. He held his arms out wide, and Annetta found herself expecting some dirty remark. Instead he said, "We work in the dark to serve the light," and the entire room nodded as one.

"We are Assassins." She felt a chill or two run down her back. Ezio paused for increased dramatics, and Annetta glanced over her shoulder. No one would _dare_ talk over the Master right now, but there were always other ways to speak.

She smiled at Panfilo. _He will drag this Ceremony out even longer than he did Bastiano's._

Panfilo's eyes laughed, though his face stayed stern and attentive. _Tullio would have loved this. His would have lasted three days._

_Imagine if he reached _Assassino _with someone else. The Ceremony never would have ended._

_I don't actually think you mind standing here. You're taking notes._

_What would I have to take notes on, exactly?_

_The Master. Planning on usurping him one of these days?_

_Hardly. _She shrugged one shoulder, the movement swallowed up by the new robes. _Just keeping my options open._

_Of course. _He smiled again. She felt herself flush, which was ridiculous.

"Nothing is true," Ezio said, "and everything is permitted." The words had age, and power, and layers of sharp-edged meaning. Annetta heard herself repeat them, heard Panfilo's deeper voice nearly drown out her own.

Thoughts from years ago came drifting back, and she knew that she had been right all along. You either withered below your scars or you stood to meet them, eye to eye.

_-i-_

After the Ceremony came the Leap of Faith, set to a background of sunset and chimney smoke, and Annetta was the first to jump. Her positioning was perfect, and even as she fell she memorized the sensations. Even as the waters of the _Tiber_ closed around her head she reflected on her technique.

Panfilo jumped after her. All he thought about as the wind rushed past was the way the light seemed to fracture off the water below.

_**The End**_

_(Thanks for reading!)**  
**_


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